


The Peasant King (and His Noble Queen)

by CyberQueens



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2018-12-02 23:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberQueens/pseuds/CyberQueens
Summary: Arthur, long-lost illegitimate son of Uther Pendragon, enjoys the simple peasant’s life, in a simple village, as he worries about simple things. That is, until the day Merlin comes to make him king. Elsewhere, Guinevere, descended from a great and noble family of equally great and noble standing, mourns her father, and the fact that he left his crown to her brother.With peace and stability in Albion resting on an alliance between their kingdoms, the two of them are a match made in heaven – in everyone’s opinion but their own, of course.





	1. Prologue Part I: The King Is Dead. Long Live the King!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlandterritory](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=inlandterritory).



> Inspired by Guenevere’s world from [The Three Guineveres](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7310686) and dedicated to [inlandterritory](http://inlandterritory.tumblr.com), who wanted to see a bit more of this particular kind of set-up, and whose unwavering enthusiasm for my A/G word vomits is an inspiration. 
> 
> * When I say “inspired by”, I do in fact mean “Now with even more tropes! and 100% less wackadoodle world travelling alternate realities stuff” 
> 
> * And when I say “tropes!” I do also in fact mean aaaall the bed-sharing, we-must-make-people-believe-we’re-in-love-because-reasons/whoops-now-we're-actually-in-love, pretend relationship, mutual pining stuff I can possibly cram into a single fic. Except they’re already married, obviously.

Arthur’s life is simple.

He rises with the sun, tends to the crops, takes care of the sheep, eats the sourdough bread he manages to bake, washes away the taste of it with a pint of ale in the tavern, and goes to bed with the high moon.

Longstead is a peaceful place, just on the border between Camelot and Escetir, where people are poor but honest, and their lives, much like Arthur’s, are simple and uneventful, too.

That is, until the day Merlin comes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On the morning after the day he has come of age, Arthur is woken by a knock on his door.

He rubs a hand over his face, and twists in his cot to turn bleary eyes to the lone window of his small cottage, just barely hanging in its frame. The sun still sits low in the eastern sky, which tells Arthur that whoever is knocking on his door is doing so at the crack of dawn.

Arthur yells for them to go away, rolls on his stomach and goes back to sleep.

The knock comes again.

One eye popping open, Arthur frowns then groans at the ache in his head. He drank half the tavern last night, having been offered tankard after tankard in honor of his birthday, and if this is Tyr at his door coming to bring him more gifts as he had made slurred promises of, Arthur swears he will forget they have grown up together and unleash Rodor’s bulls on him.

The knocking becomes more insistent and Arthur throws back his blanket, staggering to his feet. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mutters, hanging on to his head. “Gods.”

He pulls the door open, then, as the morning sun casts a light on his visitor, wonders if he is still somehow drunk or dreaming.

In his doorway stands a young man, perhaps the same age as Arthur himself, tall, lanky and dark-haired, with a slim face and big ears that stick away from his head. He is dressed in fine clothing; a plush purple tunic that falls over a pair of black trousers that are neatly tucked into his polished red boots, complete with a star-spangled blue cloak that is draped around his shoulders. Arthur is fairly certain that no one quite so odd has passed through his village, ever.

“Are you Arthur?” the man asks.

Arthur scratches his head, squinting. “Yes?”

The man lowers his hood at that, and actually _bows_. “I am Merlin,” he says. “I come from the court of Camelot. May I come in?”

Arthur doesn’t move. “Why?”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up. “To talk?”

“What about?”

“A delicate matter.”

“What delicate matter?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather discuss it inside?” Merlin looks like he might be trying not to laugh at him. “I mean, we can go on like this, too, if you want but – it’s rather rude of you, to be honest.”

Arthur presses his lips together and hesitates. The last dealing he had with anyone from King Uther’s court was a letter from one of his lords telling him the king would send no one to help them with the illness that had swept through the village, leaving his parents and many others to die from it. With that in mind, he has trouble trusting this fellow.

But he eventually steps aside anyway. “Come on in then, m’lord.”

He’s pretty sure Merlin winces. He comes inside with measured steps, taking in the room. Not that there is much to take in.

When Arthur shuts the door, Merlin turns to him, expression carefully blank as he says, “You have a lovely home.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Thanks,” he acknowledges shortly. “So, what’s this matter you want to discuss with me?”

“Right.” Merlin straightens and suddenly seems much more serious, as grave as a man twice his age. “The news I bring is…sadly, that of King Uther’s death.”

Arthur feels absolutely nothing at hearing it.

“And you came all this way just to tell _me_ that?”

Merlin stares at him intently, and it quickly becomes unnerving. “Arthur, how much do you know about the circumstances of your birth?”

Arthur grimaces. _What?_ “Well, m’lord – ” Merlin winces again –  “I imagine it involved a lot of blood and some screaming.”

Merlin’s mouth twitches. “You’ve no idea, do you?” he asks. “About who you really are?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, that before I tell you the true purpose of my visit, I must first share a secret with you. A secret that has been kept from all but a few – including you, Arthur – for as long as you have lived.”

“And what secret might that be?”

“That your parents,” says Merlin, “are the Lady Ygraine Du Bois…and Uther Pendragon.”

Oh, it is way too early in the morning and he is way too hungover for this.

“My parents,” says Arthur, very slowly, “were peasants.”

“No,” Merlin matches his tone, “your parents are Ygraine and Uther. You are the king’s son.”

“All right.” Arthur expels a breath, combing through his hair. “As fun as _that_ would be, I think you might’ve had too much to drink.”

“I am not drunk.”

Well, he is certainly not quite right in the head either way. “Where did you come from, really? Do you have someone looking after you?”

“Looking after – ” Merlin’s jaw drops. “I’m not mad! And I am who I said I was!”

“Right. _Mer_ lin. From the court of _Camelot_.”

“I am!”

“Mm – hang on, are you the one they locked in the well because he kept trying to kiss all the cows?”

_“What?_ No!”

“The one from Escetir who foretells the future and says we will all soon be ruled by the half-fish swamp people?”

“I – Arthur.”

“Oh, no wait – ” Arthur snaps his fingers. “Are you Cenred’s cousin? The one they dropped on his head?”

_“I am the most esteemed sorcerer of the king’s court!”_

Goodness, his delusions reach far.

Nonetheless, Arthur bites his lip, cocking his head. He _is_ too finely dressed to just be a commoner, he supposes. And he _does_ seem too clear-minded to have broken his skull as a babe, believe in the imminent supremacy of fish or, Gods have mercy, be a cow-lover. Still…

“Look,” Arthur tells him as kindly as he can, “I understand that you believe what you are saying, but it’s simply not true. If you want, I can accompany you to the tavern, maybe someone there will recognize – ”

Every pot on his stove explodes, one by one, sending shards of clay everywhere.

Arthur freezes.

The golden light in Merlin’s eyes slowly subsides.

_All right then._ “So.” Arthur nods. “You _are_ a sorcerer.”

“Yes,” Merlin says tightly, then huffs, straightening back to his full height. “So, if we could get back to the matter at hand – ”

“What you’re saying,” Arthur interrupts, even as an uncomfortable feeling begins to settle in the pit of his stomach, “makes no sense. All right? I am _not_ King Uther’s son.”

Something in Merlin’s eyes softens.

“I know it’s hard to understand,” he says, “but you _are_. You were born exactly twenty-one years ago, in Camelot,” he barrels on before Arthur can speak. “You were Uther’s second child, and his only son. But your mother was – _is_ not, the queen, and so, you were smuggled out of the city, under the cover of darkness, and put in the care of two kind souls who longed for a child but remained childless. Gaius and Alice.”

Merlin speaks his parents’ names and Arthur suddenly feels cold, unease slithering up his spine.

“They brought you here,” Merlin goes on, “to Longstead, where they raised you as their own. But you are _not_ theirs, Arthur, you never were. Your mother still lives,” he says, and Arthur’s breath catches, “and she longs to see you again.”

Arthur swallows. Somehow, part of him is starting to believe this mad story – the same part which had probably always known he was too unlike his parents to be theirs –, and honestly, he has no idea what to do with that.

“Your sister, Morgana,” Merlin says, “has relinquished her entitlement to the throne. And now that your father is dead, she’s sent me here for a difficult, surely, but nonetheless glorious purpose.”

With that, he lowers himself to the ground, and Arthur can only mutely track his descent as he kneels before him.

“The king is dead,” declares Merlin. “Long live the king!”

And Arthur’s life suddenly becomes very, very complicated.


	2. Prologue Part II: His Crown Is Too Big For Your Head

“Long live the king!”

“Long live the king,” Guinevere cheers with the rest of the crowd, from where she stands in the front row, watching her brother take a seat on the throne – his throne from this moment on, their father’s crown upon his head.

It suits him now, the rich, polished silver a stark contrast to his skin – though she knows that, only that morning, as it hung over her brother’s eyes and balanced precariously on his nose, Sir Leon was forced to remark, “His crown is too big for your head, my lord.”

The court sorceress Nimueh was summoned, to witness the long debate that had ensued over whether magic should be used to shrink the crown or enlarge the new king’s head. Guinevere advocated for the former though her heart was more in the latter.

The booming voice of the master of ceremony proclaims that they are all to hail Elyan, son of Thomas of the House of Leodogran, King of Cameliard.

Elyan stands and the sun reflects upon his crown – a perfect fit now –, and even as she smiles at her brother the king, some part of Guinevere’s heart continues to break.

Father is gone.

Father died on a warm summer night, from a weak heart that even magic could not save, and was buried on a beautiful summer morning. Father used his last breath to say he was proud of her – his Guinevere, his favorite, so pretty and so wise –, as she held his hand.

And in the end, Father left the throne to his son.

Guinevere shakes the thought away and bows as Elyan steps down, his deep blue cloak dragging on the ground. She smiles to herself when he mutters as he passes her, just out of the corner of his mouth, that she meet him in their spot. It hasn’t changed since they were children.

She arrives first, as usual, though maybe she can forgive him this time. There has to be plenty he must do before he finds her. He is the king, after all.

The moment of quiet is welcome, even. Guinevere steps further into the room slowly, dismissing the guards that heave the heavy oak doors shut. The midday light casts down upon the Round Table through the high windows, making the ancient wood and stone seem like it is glowing.

She comes to it, running her fingertips along the edge, skimming them over the backs of the chairs while she circles, as she always does. The faded names of the Old Kings are still engraved in ancient runes and when she was a child, Guinevere would imagine them.

She would imagine names for them, faces of tall and mighty men, stories to go with their legend – the legend of the oldest of them all, the first of the Leodograns, ancestor to all those who came after.

She would imagine herself, though her eyes could barely see above the edge then, just as mighty as him, calling for the betterment of the fates of men.

Elyan would always just run around it, toy sword in his hand, calling for adventure, quest and battle.

“You’ll make yourself dizzy,” his voice reaches her the same as it did fifteen years ago, if only without its boyish squeal.

Guinevere stops, smiling softly. “My lord.”

He steps away from the alcove at the far end that hides the secret passage to the room, shaking his head ever so slightly. He’s shed the crown by now.

“How are you feeling?” she asks when he joins her at the table.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “It is a lot to take in. How can I believe that I am king when I still find it hard to believe that Father is gone?”

Guinevere swallows. “I find it hard to believe that I will ever stop missing him.”

“Yeah,” Elyan agrees quietly. When he looks at her, she sees all of her heartbreak mirrored in his eyes. “He was a good father.”

“Yes.” The memory of him, a grin on his face and arms open wide to welcome her in a hug, floats through her mind and Guinevere finds it hard to breathe.

“And a good king.”

“Mm.” She nods.

“I’m not sure if I will be, too.”

“Of course you will, Elyan,” she says – and almost truly means it. “He would not have chosen you as his heir otherwise.”

Elyan says nothing for a moment. “I want to believe that,” he eventually speaks. “I hope that, if I am not to be a good king, at least I will not be a _bad_ one. Only time will tell, I guess. It is only the start, but…Guinevere, the _feeling_ of it,” his voice positively trembles with wonder, “of the crown upon my head, of the power that comes with it, of the people calling me their king…” He shakes his head. “There is nothing like it.”

“I imagine not,” she says, looking away. Her nails scrape the wood so hard, she fears they will leave marks.

“And I am so grateful,” he adds, leaning in to catch her eye, “to have your support. I do not know what I would do without it.”

He is so earnest as he says it that she can’t help but smile – and truly mean it. “Of course,” she says. “I am always here if you need me.”

He smiles, too. “I know I will. You are the wiser one of us. Father always said so.”

He had. So much so that she had almost come to believe that he would change the rules for her, forget the traditions, that he would make her –

There is no point in dwelling on it.

“Father was often right,” she merely says, with just a hint of teasing.

Elyan hums in agreement, casting his eyes to the Round Table again. “It always impressed that he knew what the right thing to do was, so often. When I was a boy, I actually thought his power came from this table.” He knocks his knuckles against the wood, laughing. “That it gave him divine providence or something.”

“Perhaps it was not divine,” she says softly, “but I do believe that what this table represents enlightens all men. Its values guide their judgement…so that it is always fair and just.” She gulps. “As was Father’s.”

Elyan nods. “You always did love it as much as he. More, even.”

_More,_ she thinks. “The Round Table affords no one person greater importance than the other,” she recites her favorite story. “All who sit at it, do so as equals.” And when she sat at it, at her father’s meetings, she felt like one, too.

But her father is gone, and the illusion has passed. While her brother was meant to be king, she was always meant for only one thing.

“May I take it with me?” she asks.

Elyan looks nonplussed.

“When I marry,” she clarifies, and his eyes clear in understanding. “I know you don’t hold it as dear as I do,” she adds, smiling to soften the blow, “so I was hoping you would let it come with me. In future.”

His agreement comes easily, and Guinevere hugs him in gratitude.

When she marries, it will, of course, not truly belong to her but to her husband, and the thought churns a hole in the pit of her stomach, but at least it will be with her. A piece of Cameliard and her father. A piece of her heart.

“You know that I will only put you in the care of the best of men,” Elyan promises when they part, “when the time comes. Not too soon, though.”

She laughs a little as he gives her shoulders a light squeeze.

“But I’m sure,” says Elyan, “that whoever he is, it will be someone who makes you happy”. Raising his eyebrows, he adds, “Perhaps you’ll fall in love.”

She shrugs, leaning into her brother’s side. “Time will tell.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Nimueh turns to Sir Leon, raising an eyebrow. “You are Guinevere’s champion, are you not?”

“I am.” He says it with such pride. Nimueh thinks his chest might puff out a bit, too.

“Then my meaning should be clear,” she says. “You must be ready to follow and defend her wherever she goes. It is what you have sworn to do.”

“The part that I don’t understand is,” Leon says, “ _where_ is she going?”

Nimueh turns to look over the expanse that stretches below them. From its highest tower, the palace of Cameliard offers the view to its gardens, beautiful and full of color, and beyond them, to the green planes of the pastures upon which the animals graze, as far as the eye can see.

She still holds the memory of a different view, mountains and hills she has not seen since the night that Uther forced her to flee Camelot. For not killing his son as he had bid.

But the prophecies she knows remain true and, if she has counted the nearly twenty-one years that do not show on her skin right, then the time has almost come for some quite interesting things.

“That will be decided soon. But,” she adds before Leon can speak, “the fact remains that she cannot remain here forever. One day, she will be the wife of a king.”

Finally, the knight understands her meaning, his brow creasing. “She will be sad to leave Cameliard when that day comes.”

Darken his skin and trim his beard, and he sounds just like the late king. So Nimueh tells him the same thing she had told her old friend, “Her destiny lies elsewhere. Great things await beyond these walls, Leon.”

“You know this?”

She knows that Guinevere was born to be queen. Just not here. Even if it broke her father’s heart, the ancient prophets never lied.

Nimueh smiles. “Time will show.”


	3. You Need A Wife

Well, he’s lasted nearly four months.

It’s a good run. This whole kingship and kingdom business was too big for his set of peasant shoulders anyway. Or illegitimate royal bastard shoulders, as it were.

Arthur trudges though weeds and leaves that cover the soft, muddy ground, and sighs for the thousandth time since Merlin dragged him into madness. Right now, he can’t remember why he hadn’t just turned his horse around.

Something about wanting to make this land better for its people or some such flowery, noble nonsense. Well, that hasn’t happened, because he has no idea how to be king, and his council – instead of doing such things as, oh, warning him that parts of his land are positively  _overrun_  with bandits – only care about marrying him off for alliance and wealth and things like that. He admits that they had softened him by throwing around notions of peace and prosperity, as had the princess and her brother in their letters, but he considers that that hardly matters now anyway.

Today is the day he is supposed to meet her, waiting for her travelling party to arrive at the palace. She’ll be disappointed. Perhaps, when they present her with his dead, mangled body, she’ll even cry over it for the principle of the thing. Ladies are always so polite.

Except Morgana, maybe. If he recalls, when he said this morning that he wanted to take a hunting party to a seldom travelled part of the woods before the princess arrived, Morgana’s answer had been, “Don’t be stupid, Arthur.”

Well. He proved her – right.

She’ll be disappointed, too, when he dies a death as unremarkable as his life in a godsforsaken corner of the woods and leaves her as the only heir to the throne again. He is king because she sent for him, because, as Merlin had once told him and Arthur has learned himself, she cares far more for her studies of magic than she does for her right to rule. Her heart’s just not in it.

Arthur cannot say that his had ever really been in it either, but that’s neither here nor there.

He sneaks through the trees, perking his ears to the distant sounds of scuffle, voices and twigs crunching under dozens of pairs of boots. He hopes that the red, knight’s cloak he’s shed about twenty paces south will trick at least some of the bandits and send them looking in the opposite direction. He is not sure if they realized who he really is. It’s probably for the best. Otherwise, they would capture him, then torture him, then ask for a ransom, and honestly, Arthur would rather just die.

But it  _would_  be just his luck to be taken and held for ransom, as it had been his luck to get ambushed by a swarm of bloodthirsty bandits and separated from his knights.

He thinks at least  _they_  like him. Maybe they’ll miss him.

He can’t hear any sounds that would indicate someone is coming  _towards_  him, so Arthur sheaths his sword and takes a moment to just breathe. He stops and leans against the trunk of a tree, sagging against the wood and closing his eyes.

There is a rustling sound, a yelp, the cracking of a branch, and then a woman falls from the heavens and straight into his arms.

He holds them out automatically to catch her, as hers are probably moved the same way to wrap around his shoulders, and Arthur finds himself staring into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he’s ever seen.

They are wide as she blinks up at him, mouth hanging open wordlessly. There are freckles on her nose.

“Hello,” Arthur says, a little dazed.

Her mouth snaps shut, brow creasing in an indignant frown. “Unhand me!” she demands.

It’s instinct. He lets her go and drops his arms immediately, which has the unfortunate side effect of letting  _her_  drop right to the ground with a shriek.

“I’m sorry,” he’s already apologizing as he drops to one knee beside her. She straightens, sitting up on the ground, looking twice as indignant as she did before as she delicately picks forest gunk out of her hair. It is long, dark and curly, and Arthur is starting to get a bit distracted by how shiny it is.

She is appraising him with narrowed eyes, mouth set into a thin line. “Who are you?” she asks – imperiously, if Arthur says so himself.

He opens his mouth to respond, then remembers that is supposed to be  _cautious_  and  _wary_  of strangers, especially in times of crises, instead of just blurting out his name and title to every pretty girl he meets. The voice in his head sounds a lot like Merlin.

He clamps his mouth shut, and narrows his eyes in kind. “Who are  _you?_ ”

Her chin ticks up. “I asked you first.”

“Ladies first,” he retorts.

She looks like she is trying very hard to come up with a suitable counterargument to that, then raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think that I am a lady?”

Arthur merely looks her up and down, and considers that is answer enough. She is dressed in such fine travelling clothes that she would probably be the envy of all the ladies of his court. He thinks there might be actual jewels embroidered into the hem of her cloak. With what might be threads of actual spun gold.

She appears to concede his point with a tight huff.

“Well, whoever you are,  _my lady,”_  Arthur speaks, “I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

She purses her lips, then pointedly glances down at the spot she sits in.

“You told me to unhand you,” Arthur argues.

“Yes, not to  _drop_  me.”

She is about as polite as Morgana is. “Fine,” he grumbles. “I  _apologize_. Again.”

The only indication he receives that she has accepted it is the little, elegant dip of her chin. “I suppose,” she says at length, “that you should also know that  _I_  mean  _you_  no harm either.”

He doesn’t see what harm she could possibly do him either way – she’s just a girl, one who can’t hold on to a branch to save her life, at that – but it is a surprisingly sweet thing to say.

“Thanks,” he smiles, and swears her eyes linger on his mouth for a moment before they snap back up.

Her own lips hesitantly lift at the corners, too, and  _her_  smile is, hand to heart, the prettiest thing Arthur has ever seen on this Earth. She is pretty all over, really, and because she only continues to watch him in silence, it is easy to forget that the same cannot be truly said of her attitude. Especially when his mind seems singularly preoccupied with the little mole she has on her cheek, just next to her nose.

It is, of course, only at this juncture that Arthur remembers that he is meant to get  _married_ , that he is  _contractually_  promised to another, and that letting his eye wander became  _highly_  inappropriate the moment he agreed to it. He may be a peasant, but he is not Uther.

It is also only now that he realizes that they are both still on the ground.

He clears his throat and stands, holding a gloved hand out to her. “Here.”

Her eyes flicker up to him as she gathers the many layers of her clothing in one hand, then slips the fingers of the other over his. Unlike his thick, black, leather ones, her gloves are soft, silken, and purple. Arthur doesn’t grip her hand firmly, as one might logically do when helping another pick themselves up, because that is not how one proceeds with ladies. Again, it is Merlin’s voice that reminds him of this.

Even without Merlin, the way this girl is, Arthur thinks that the only sensible way to touch her is delicately, and she doesn’t seem to need any more leverage than this anyway as she rises back to her feet with grace.

And why is he still thinking about her?

He drops his hand as soon as she stands on her own, and shifts his feet awkwardly. “So,” he grapples for something to say as she dusts off her clothes, and in the end, what comes out is, “what were you doing in the tree?”

“There’s bandits,” her voice lowers as if  _that_  is what said bandits will finally hear and use to find them. “I was…told to hide in the tree until the matter was settled.”

That seems reasonable enough. Arthur nods. Then frowns. “Told by whom?”

She rubs her lips together. “I will tell you,” she proposes, “if you tell me why  _you_  are out here wandering the woods alone.”

They are back to that, then. “How do you know  _I’m_  not one of the bandits?” he asks. “Maybe I was lying about meaning you no harm to gain your trust.”

“If that had been your intention, then your execution would have been very poor.”  _Ouch._ “But if you are one of the bandits,” she raises her chin, “you should know that I am far more valuable alive than I am dead.”

“Yes, well…you should know that I am, too,” is Arthur’s best response to that. “In case you are, you know, a spy or something.”

She looks doubtful of the importance of his life, and Arthur crosses his arms, pursing his lips. “You don’t know,” he argues. “I – could be the king of Camelot.”

She outright  _laughs_  at the idea, trying and failing to hide it behind her hand, and Arthur has honestly never been more offended in his life. Not even when Merlin’s mouth dropped open in surprise when he said he knew how to read.

“I could be!”

“I very much doubt the king of Camelot would be foolish enough to find himself alone and poorly armed in bandit-infested woods.”

 _Yeah, well, maybe he’s not so bright,_  Arthur thinks. “Right, well – ”

Before his words can come together into a suitably acerbic comeback, the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps can be heard far too close for comfort, and Arthur immediately draws his sword again and gestures for her to get behind him. They huddle by the tree, as Arthur tries to sneak glances around the trunk to see who’s upon them and she stands behind his back.

He spares a moment to look over his shoulder, and mouths,  _“Be quiet.”_

She mouths something back, and it’s either, _“no, I’ll just break into song,”_  or,  _“nothing tastes as good as bog”_. Probably the former.

Either way, Arthur rolls his eyes then turns them back to the forest. The outlines of a group of men emerge from the woods, except they advance in careful formation instead of the aimless stumbling of a flock of waddling ducks he might associate with bandits. The shapes of the two men at the front of the party sharpen and Arthur spies a red cloak, a dark beard, and an equally dark mop of hair.  _Gwaine_. Next to him is a tall, bearded fellow with sandy-blond hair, dressed in a blue knight’s cloak with a silver clasp.

Arthur lets out a sigh of relief, and sheaths his sword. “It’s all right, it’s the knights,” he calls to his companion as steps out from behind the tree. She follows.

“Oh, thank the Gods,” the two men say as one.

Arthur does his utmost to appear kingly and not all like he’s just been hiding behind a tree with a damsel.  _Treat the men firmly but with respect,_ Merlin had once said. Therefore, Arthur says, “Took you long enough. I’m glad to see you.”

“You too, sire,” Gwaine returns. The tall one merely bows his head. They part to let a third man pass, dressed in another blue cloak, except Arthur knows this one. He’s met him in negotiations not a month ago.

“King Elyan,” he lets out.

“Arthur,” Elyan says, and Arthur hears the girl behind him gasp. “It’s so good to see you again. Safe and sound, no less. It seems your party and mine have both fallen into the same ambush. This is Sir Leon, one of Cameliard’s finest. These are the rest of my knights. And, uh,” he chuckles, gesturing over Arthur’s shoulder, “I see you already know Guinevere.”

And that is how Arthur realizes that he’s just met his future wife.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_Three months earlier_ **

 

“You need a wife.”

Arthur looks up at him like a frightened rabbit.

“Is what your council wants to see you about,” Merlin continues.

“Oh,” Arthur lets out weakly, then affects a brave face. “Um, how – how quickly would I need to find this wife, exactly?”

Merlin tilts his head from one side to the other. “Pretty quickly, I’m afraid.” He can practically  _see_  Arthur trying to perform complex arithmetic in his head to account for  _quickly_  finding, meeting and, Gods be kind, falling in love with this hypothetical woman, so he adds, “We already have a few possible matches in mind.”

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “ _Matches_?”

It is at times like these that Merlin honestly just feels bad for the new king. He never grew up knowing this. “Your hand in marriage, my lord,” he says as kindly as he can, “is not about love, or fancy, it is about strategy, and forging the alliance that best serves Camelot.”

Arthur’s face falls but he quickly schools his features, nodding slowly. “So,” he says, as if to make sure he’s got this right, “this is going to be one of those occasions where you all just  _tell me_ what is best, and what I should do, and it won’t really matter what I think?”

He says,  _“one of those occasions,”_  but Merlin is really not sure he’s had any  _other_  kind of experience with the council since getting his crown.

“The counsel we give you,” Merlin says, “is always with Camelot’s best interests in mind. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees quietly. After a moment, he asks, “And this will be good for Camelot? Me, marrying some…princess or other, just for an alliance?”

“If it is the right alliance,” Merlin shrugs, “then there will be nothing  _better_  for it.”

This knowledge seems to steel Arthur, and Merlin freely admits – to the confines of his own mind, but still – that he admires him for it. He’s met well-bred, court fed and raised kings who possessed none of Arthur’s singular drive to just do what is  _good_  for Camelot. One king in particular comes to mind. He used to sit in Arthur’s chair.

Arthur still does look a bit green in the face, though, and stays that way as they walk to the council chambers for this meeting.

The lords and Morgana stand as they enter and bow their heads to the king, while Merlin quietly makes his way to his own spot and Arthur continues on to the head of the table. This time, he does actually wait for Morgana to sit first before taking his own seat. He’s getting the hang of that one thing, at least.

“My lord,” Morgana begins the meeting, as experience has taught them that it is for the best, “we have called this meeting to discuss a rather important matter. It concerns the very future of Camelot.”

“Yes?” Arthur squeaks. He clears his throat, then tries again, going for a deeper, gravelly note, “Yes?”

“It is also quite a joyous topic, I believe,” Lord Edwin pipes in. Of course, even joyous things sound ominous coming out of Edwin’s mouth, what with half his face being burned off and all. “We should like to discuss the matter of your hand in marriage, my lord.”

Arthur has never looked greener.

“You’ve received quite a few offers since your coronation,” Edwin adds.

“I have?” The shock in Arthur’s voice is palpable.

“You are now one of the most eligible bachelors in Albion, dear brother,” Morgana says, gently.

Arthur looks at her like she is mad, but, mercifully, doesn’t comment.

“Here.” She mutters a spell and flicks her wrist – for show, and because she is dramatic –, and a pile of letters drops from nowhere and onto the table, spilling all the way to where Arthur sits. He shrinks in his seat.

“That’s a lot,” he croaks.

Merlin nods when he casts a furtive look in his direction, and Arthur gingerly picks up the first letter from the pile.

“King Odin has written to propose an alliance through marriage with his niece,” Lord Adnain comments upon the letter as Arthur reads it. “Our kingdoms are already good friends, and this marriage would serve to truly solidify that friendship with a permanent union. It is a good match.”

It is only a good match in his mind because his riches depend on the liquor he trades with Odin, and because Odin’s lords do him favors as he does favors for them.

The next letter the king picks is from Godwyn, and Sir Tadeus extols Princess Elena’s virtues in the same breath where he praises the strength of their army – the army which depends on the rare metals Tadeus exports for their armors.

Ruadan speaks at length of the benefits of an alliance with Mordred, the Boy King of Ismere, and never mentions that the fact that they are cousins would give Ruadan a legitimacy at court that he only dreams of now.

Merlin exchanges looks with Morgana. Everyone has a vested interest in this.

And so do they.

“All fine matches,” Morgana agrees as Bors’ tirade on the finer points of Amata’s cuisine winds down. “However,” she adds, and pushes a particular letter towards Arthur, “I believe there is only one among these that is truly worthwhile.”

Arthur picks it up and lifts the blue and silver seal, frowning a little as he reads. “Who’s Guinevere?”

Merlin suppresses a smile when Sir Gwaine audibly gasps besides him. To not know of Guinevere, greatest beauty of this world, is indeed, scandalous. Especially to Gwaine.

“The sister of King Elyan of Cameliard,” Morgana says. “Her father and ours were…unfriendly, to each other, at times. But this is a new time, Arthur, and Elyan sees it, too. For Albion is not at peace for many reasons, but one of them,” she leans closer, “is that most kingdoms pledge allegiance to only one of two forces in the land. Us or them. And if we were to become true allies, we might be all that closer to true  _peace_.”

She knows what to say, Merlin will give her that. Because Arthur, Gods love him, still has a pure and true heart even after these few weeks he’s spent in Camelot. And he cares for pure and true causes.

“You will not find a lady of greater standing,” Gwaine chimes in, too. An unexpected but welcome contribution. “Her family is among the oldest in the land. They come from the Old Kings, with all the nobility and glory that carries.”

“And the wealth,” supplies Morgana.

“That, too,” Gwaine agrees. “Not to mention,” he grins, “that she is a great beauty.”

Of course that would be his selling point.

The true one, however, is the one he made before. A lady of great standing, the greatest, who will join that reputation to that of the king, whose own is hardly as admirable. Nothing will be achieved if they cannot keep Arthur on the throne and consolidate his rule. Some lords nod in true agreement, others mutter theirs reluctantly and then there are those who outright frown in displeasure. But it doesn't matter if they agree, only that the king does. It won't be the advantage of the Leodograns' standing that convinces him, though. He is still too naïve for that.

Surely enough, Arthur turns to Morgana, who smiles in encouragement. Then, he turns to Merlin, a question in his eyes.

Merlin says, “An alliance between Camelot and Cameliard will benefit us all.”

And the king, naturally, agrees.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Uther Pendragon is dead,” Elyan tells her. It is not the strangest announcement Guinevere has ever heard. She has, however, never heard a king announce the death of another quite so cheerfully._

_She lowers the quill she’s been using to pen a letter to Princess Elena, and leans back in her chair. “Father would have been saddened to hear that.”_

_Elyan raises an eyebrow. “Would he?”_

_While it is true that their father’s relationship with Uther had been strained, at best, in the twenty years since Nimueh had been offered sanctuary in Cameliard, it is also true that their father was far too dignified to ever openly celebrate a man’s death. Probably._

_“Well, maybe not for long,” she allows, and gets a smile out of Elyan. “Still, any king’s death should be acknowledged as such. Though I imagine,” she adds, “Nimueh, at least, feels differently about it.” (She later learns that Nimueh was, in fact, at that very moment, dancing through the halls with a bottle in her hand.)_

_Elyan laughs outright. “Can you blame her? The man exiled her. Threatened Father with war just for taking her in.” He frowns. “You know, I still don’t know why he hated her so much…”_

_Guinevere considers that it hardly matters anymore. “While I understand why she might be pleased with this news,” she says, “why are you?”_

_His eyes light up. “This is an opportunity,” he says, stepping closer to her desk in his enthusiasm, “the likes of which have not presented themselves in over twenty years. You can’t tell me you don’t see it, too.”_

_A dead sovereign means a new one, and in this case, it means a young, unmarried heir to the throne, who offers the possibility of an alliance. While Elyan is forever bound to Cameliard, she is not, so yes, in theory, she saw the opportunity the moment Elyan announced Uther’s death. She also sees a very obvious problem with it._

_“While Morgana Pendragon is lovely,” Guinevere says, “I don’t think that would work, Elyan.”_

_Elyan positively beams. “Oh, it’s not her.”_

_She frowns. “What are you talking about?”_

_“She is not the one who will succeed Uther.” Elyan’s eyes are alight with excitement as he delivers the true news, “He had a son.”_

_It is not often that she is struck dumb, but this is one those rare occasions. As it sinks in, though, she is somehow reminded of her own fate, and something bitter rises in her throat. “A king’s bastard son – ” and that, he has to be – “is more fit for the throne than a princess?”_

_“She gave up her claim to the throne, apparently.”_

_Guinevere finds that hard to understand. “Why would she do such a thing?”_

_Elyan shrugs. “Whatever her reasons are, it is what she did. She sent for him to be brought to court and crowned. And do you know who his mother is?”_

_Guinevere shakes her head._

_“Ygraine de Bois.”_

_She is not often one for scandal and gossip, but she gasps anyway, jaw dropping. “No!”_

_“Yes!” Elyan nods quickly. “They consorted in secret, had a son – then, I guess, they smuggled him out of Camelot? And nobody knew!”_

_She wonders if Nimueh did. With this new revelation, the timing of her exile seems…suspect._

_“So, he will be the new king,” Guinevere says, “and you see an opportunity for an alliance between our kingdoms?” She wonders if he saw it on his own, or if it had been pointed out to him by someone with a mind for these things._

_“_   _It’s perfect, don’t you think?”_

_It is, if she excises her heart from the equation entirely._

_“Father hoped for many years that an alliance could be forged between Cameliard and Camelot,” she agrees. “We would benefit from their army as they would benefit from our trade and riches. Beyond that,” she says, “the kingdoms of this land are divided on one thing, and it is whether they pledge allegiance to them or to us. If we were to come together…then we might even hope for lasting peace.”_

_Which is precisely why her heart has no place in this._

_“Exactly.” Elyan nods._

_“But you will not be the only one who sees an opportunity here,” she points out._

_His face falls a bit at that. “You’re right,” he admits. “Nonetheless, I shall write to him and his council. You are, by far, the most desirable match any king in this land could hope for. If Camelot doesn’t see that, they are fools.”_

_She smiles._

_“But,” Elyan says seriously, “I promise you, that if he accepts, I will learn what kind of a man he is. If he is unkind in any way, peace and prosperity or not, I will not send you to Camelot. I would never forgive myself if I did.” He shrugs a little. “And Father would probably come back from the grave just to kill me for it, too.”_

_Her smile widens. “Thank you.”_

_He leaves her to, she assumes, begin his clever machinations, as she returns to her letter. He is nearly out the door before it occurs to her that there is a question she hasn’t thought to ask._

_“Elyan, wait,” she calls after him. “What’s his name?”_

_Elyan turns around. “Arthur,” he says. “His name is Arthur.”_

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur scratches his chin with one hand and twirls his quill with the other, looking at Merlin pleadingly. Merlin stares back in silence.

After a moment, Arthur huffs. “Well, help me, will you?”

Merlin sighs. The piece of parchment on Arthur’s desk is as blank as it was twenty minutes ago, about the time when it was decided he would write to Princess Guinevere to say he will accept her brother’s offer.

“You’re telling her you wish to ask for her hand in marriage,” he says. “Surely you can do that without my help?”

“Alright, then,” Arthur mutters, placing the tip of the quill on the parchment. “Dearest, um, Guinevere,” he says as he writes, “will you marry me?”

Merlin promptly burns the parchment out of existence.

Arthur makes a sour face, brushing away the spark that caught on his sleeve. “Was that necessary?”

“Completely and utterly,” Merlin says. “You can’t just…come out and say it like that. Ease into it, sire, have some,” he struggles for the word, “tact!”

Arthur doesn’t look away from him as he very deliberately picks up a new piece of parchment and lays it on the table. “Fine,” he says. “Dearest Guinevere,” he begins anew, “I have heard that you are in want of a husband. Which is fortuitous, because I am also in need of a wife – ”

“Oh, give me that,” Merlin snaps, ripping the paper from his hands. He clears it with a quick incantation then smooths it over the desk again so it faces him. He snatches the quill, too, and enchants it to write along in Arthur’s hand – only now it speaks beautiful things of the heart instead of spewing atrocities.

Arthur leans back in his chair and grins, and so Merlin thinks that perhaps he is not so much hopeless as he is being a prat.

“This is a great opportunity for Camelot,” Merlin says tartly. “I don’t know why are you being so difficult about it.”

Arthur’s smile slips. “I rather think I’m being quite agreeable about it,” he says quietly.

Merlin sighs softly. For a while, the only thing that can be heard is the scratching of the quill upon the parchment.

“If you want to know the real truth, sire,” Merlin says eventually, “I think it’s mad, too.” He shrugs. “People should marry for love, not convenience. But you are not just anyone, Arthur,” he goes on, “and unfortunately, being king means that you must put the good of Camelot before your own desires.”

“I’m starting to see that, yes,” Arthur says, without any real heat behind it. His mouth twists a little. “So, um…tell me again how marrying this one girl will change things?”

“It will bring us that much closer to restoring peace to Albion,” Merlin answers absently.

“Right,” Arthur says, “and none of it has to do with how rich and distinguished she is, and how that will make  _me_  seem like a legitimate king instead of the poor peasant bastard Uther fathered when he went to bed with his best friend’s wife?”

Merlin’s head snaps up and his quill screeches to a halt. So maybe Arthur is not so naïve after all.

“There is a bit of that, too, yes,” Merlin admits.

“I thought so.”

“Listen,” Merlin sighs, “I know it sounds terrible, and unfair, but that’s just how it is. Whether you like it or not, the nobles care for that sort of thing. It’s all those customs and traditions that have been around for hundreds of years. Perhaps you’ll have a hand in changing that,” he proposes, “but for now…the best you can do is play along. You cannot change  _anything_  if you do not wield enough power from your own throne, sire.”

Arthur looks down, and sinks a little in his chair.

“I believe,” Merlin’s tone gentles, “that you have the heart of a true king, Arthur, if not yet the…skills. But until you do, you have a trying road ahead of you. More trying than anyone who has come before you has had to contend with. You have more to prove than any of them ever did. I warned you of how difficult this would be.”

“So you have,” Arthur acknowledges.

Merlin nods, gestures to the parchments, and concludes, “This is part of it.”

“I understand.” Arthur looks up. “But it is precisely because I do not have the skills you speak of that I trust you to guide my decisions,” he adds. “I rely on your judgement, Merlin.”

An increasingly familiar feeling of guilt settles in the pit of Merlin’s stomach, but for Arthur, he plasters a smile. “I won’t fail you.”

Arthur seems to accept this and relaxes, then cocks his head at the quill that has resumed its trek across the parchment. “So, tell me something,” he prompts, “if this is to be an arranged marriage, right, done for politics – then what on  _Earth_  are you putting in that letter?”

Currently, it is a lengthy paragraph on Guinevere’s beauty, grace and wisdom, the better part of which is an amalgamate of things he’s heard from Gwaine and the like, and pretty words from poems girls like. “I – and by that, I mean,  _you_ , are extoling all of her virtues and praising her for them.”

“Again,” Arthur makes a circular motion with his hand, as if to indicate he ought to refer himself to the point he had previously made.

“You and I know that,” Merlin says, “and honestly, so does she, but it’s just how things are done. It’s courtship.” He chooses not to mention the part where it is likely that this letter will be intercepted and read by various schemers, detractors and their spies before it reaches Cameliard. He will ease the king into all that later.

“How many letters will I be expected to write, exactly?” Arthur asks. With dread.

Merlin doesn’t give him a number but his expression must speak plenty because Arthur pales, then eyes the window behind him with obvious intent.

“It will be fine. You’ll have me,” Merlin assures. Their feelings for each other will appear genuine and beautiful before Guinevere ever steps foot in Camelot. He will make this is into a damned love story if it's one more thing that makes this alliance look strong. _For unity and peace,_  he reminds himself and embarks on a lovely tirade about just how handsome Arthur is, while still endeavoring to keep him modest. It is a fine balance.

Arthur himself is looking down his nose at the letter, eyebrows raised. “You really seem to know these things.”

“I do.”

“Courted many girls, have you?”

Merlin makes to spin a fantastical tale in which he is the secret, mysterious and undeniable heartthrob of Camelot, then realizes that there would really be no point to it. “Not one, actually.”

Arthur’s smile is entirely fake. “Oh, this is going to be  _great._ ”


	4. Lies!

_This is such a disaster,_ Arthur thinks.

Their excruciatingly long journey back to Camelot finally ends in the courtyard, where a welcoming party awaits. Morgana stands at the front of it, on the steps leading to the palace, and while her expression is pleasantly bland, Arthur _knows_ she is judging him. Possibly because Gwaine has ridden ahead to inform her of what has happened.

Standing behind Morgana, Ygraine only looks relieved to see him alive, and Merlin is watching him with undisguised amusement. He’s also got a tall red hat on his head, for reasons that Arthur cannot comprehend.

Arthur halts his horse, jumps off and walks over to where Guinevere has reined her own in. He holds his hands out to help her dismount, and without even looking, he is sure that Merlin sighs in relief when he remembers to do this one thing. Guinevere still eyes him with apprehension, like she worries that if she accepts his help, he’ll end up dropping her. He understands where he might have gotten that reputation.

But it’s not like she’s much better. She’s ridden next to him the whole way back, and while Arthur admits that he got flustered and therefore spent the better part of it telling her about the different goats he’s herded over the years, it is really no excuse for her to turn up her nose at him like this. Especially _after_ he finally let go of the goats.

He apologized for talking too much and she said that no, there was no need, she was happy to hear his thoughts – the falsest, most insincere statement Arthur has ever heard. He said the weather was nice and she replied, “yes, sunny with a chance of bandits.” Her letters never mentioned how _witty_ she is.

He even apologized for that, because it was not on purpose and he truly did not know about the bandits, and she looked at him like he was either the biggest simpleton or the worst king to ever walk this Earth.

All in all, Arthur has come to two conclusions. Firstly, that everyone in Camelot is a liar and has been serving him the idea of someone who does not exist, and secondly, that he’s set himself up for marrying the most ineligible girl in Albion.

She swings her leg over the horse now, with the air of a woman about to march into certain death, and puts her hands on his shoulders as he rests hers on her waist. Her feet are safely on the ground soon after and Arthur pretends that there is absolutely no part of holding her like this that makes his heart speed up in his chest.

Introductions are made, and it is all perfectly pleasant. Nods and bows are exchanged and ladies’ hands are kissed as the party from Cameliard moves forward, and Morgana has just started saying something about lunch when Ygraine gasps.

All eyes are on her but hers are only trained straight ahead, to one of the women from Guinevere’s party, who slowly steps forward and lowers the hood of her cloak. Arthur has never seen anyone with such deep blue eyes.

Ygraine is moving forward too, as if drawn to the woman by some invisible string, an incredulous smile on her face. “Nimueh,” she says tremulously, “is that really you?”

The woman – Nimueh, smiles back, but there is a softness, an intimacy, to it that makes Arthur curious. “It’s been a long time, old friend.”

“You have not changed a bit,” Ygraine tells her.

“Neither have you.”

“I’ve grown old,” Ygraine chuckles faintly.

Nimueh shakes her head. “You are as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

Arthur, as often is the case, has no idea what’s happening, and looks to everyone around him for pointers. None are forthcoming. He even glances at Guinevere, who also watches the exchange with interest and, as if having the same idea, turns to him for an explanation. When she realizes he has none either, possibly by the nonplussed look on his face, she huffs and picks up her skirts to climb the steps.

_Such a disaster,_ Arthur thinks again, and follows.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Elyan’s a liar,” Guinevere declares to Nimueh as she paces the guest quarters she’s been given. Nimueh looks on with only lukewarm interest. “He says that Arthur is a good man and a good king, but is that the truth? No!”

(“They say she is kind, and sweet, and wise,” Arthur rants at Merlin as he paces his chambers, “but is she? No!”)

“He is simple, and tactless, and has _no_ kingly virtues – ”

(“She is insincere, and conceited, and thinks she’s better than everyone else – ”)

“All he talks about are goats!”

(“It’s like that goat we had once – ”)

“I don’t care where he comes from or even that he is illegitimate, but I should at least expect him to care about the state of affairs in his own kingdom!”

(“She may be from a great family, but that doesn’t mean she should be so rude! Aren’t ladies supposed to be nice?”)

“Apparently, that it is safer to march on a battlefield than to ride to Camelot is just not something he can be bothered to know!”

(“Do you know what, I blame myself for believing everything I heard about her, it was always too good to be true.”)

“A peasant boy with the heart of a true king? Who’s ever heard of such a thing?”

 (“All that talk about forging a true alliance that will bring peace to Albion? She probably didn’t mean a word of it!”)

“And his letters! Gods! He could not have possibly written a word of them himself. He probably doesn’t even understand _why_ this marriage was arranged! And do you know how I know that?”

(“Because she only thinks about herself!”)

“Because he only thinks about goats!”

(“She can fool anyone on paper but no part of it can be sustained in person! Everything she said – ”)

“About how intelligent, and dedicated, strong-willed and courageous he is? All lies!”

(“Lies!”)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“She can’t be that bad,” Merlin hedges after Arthur is finished. Arthur puts his hands on his hips and glares. “Well, _I_ think she’s nice. And everyone likes her.”

“That’s just because she’s _beautiful_ ,” Arthur sneers. “You know, with her…pretty face, and her pretty eyes, and her…shiny hair…” He is quickly losing sight of the point he is trying to make. “And the way she…smiles…”

“Right,” Merlin says slowly. “So…might it be worthwhile to get to know her better?” he suggests. “Perhaps you just need to give her another chance.”

Arthur is reluctant to agree with anything of the sort.

“I know your heart’s not in this,” Merlin says, “but for better or for worse, you are going to be spending a lot of time with her from now on. You don’t have to love her,” he allows, “but things will be lot easier if you are at least _friends_.”

It is, unfortunately, a good point. Because he’s agreed to this and now his honor compels him to see it through. Also because Merlin’s warned him long ago that trying to get out of it would be grounds for war.

“All right,” Arthur mutters, then circles the desk to plop down into his chair, bested by tradition. “So, what do I do now?”

“A picnic might be nice.” Merlin shrugs.

“In my bandit-infested lands?” Arthur says wryly.

Merlin purses his lips. “Perhaps the royal gardens might be the better choice?”

Arthur hums. He picks up a quill and twirls it in his hand for a while before he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, sire?”

“How dangerous Camelot is,” Arthur says. “I’ve known bandits and thieves in my village, many times, but to get ambushed by two dozen of them right outside the city…”

“Arthur…”

“Is this not something that should concern me? As you keep telling me…I am the king, after all.”

Merlin sighs. “It is true,” he allows, “that the situation has become…worrisome. It’s not escaped our attention. It started when Uther was still alive. He increased patrols, and changed their routes more often so as to make it more difficult for the bandits to learn and avoid them, but…it does not seem to make a difference. That is the truth. I am sorry we did not tell you.”

The knights’ patrols and their routes are things he is not quite familiar with, so Arthur supposes he understands. Just as he understands that they probably think there’s nothing he could do about this anyway. And they are probably not wrong.

He nods, accepting Merlin’s apology. “Thank you,” he says, leaning back into the chair. “But, um, Merlin…just tell me one more thing.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“What on Earth,” Arthur asks, “are you wearing on your head?”

Merlin’s gaze flickers up, to the rim of the obnoxious, godsawful hat he is still wearing. “A hat.”

“Why?”

“I wear hats.”

“No, you don’t.”

Merlin cannot reasonably argue with this, so he sighs again, and lifts a hand to pull the hat off. When he does, there are a dozen white daisies sprouting from his black hair, like a very odd sort of meadow. Arthur stares in silence.

“I had some thoughts on Morgana’s latest writings about troll magic,” Merlin informs neutrally. “She had some thoughts on my thoughts.”

Arthur sighs, too.

All the warnings Merlin’s given him about how difficult it would prove to be king, and not one of them about him and Morgana. Four months in, Arthur still can’t quite decide if they are friends or enemies. On the one hand, neither has ever shown obvious signs of plotting the other’s death. On the other hand, he has once seen Morgana breathe fire through the halls because Merlin turned her tank of leeches into a tank of piranhas, while Merlin hid in an alcove and snickered at his own apparent genius.

As if conjured by this line of thinking, Morgana breezes into his chambers. Unlike Merlin, she at least always knocks first. She steps inside, takes one look at the top of Merlin’s head, and smirks. “Merlin,” she says, “you’ve positively blossomed this morning.”

“Your words warm my heart like the fires of hell, my lady,” is Merlin’s reply.

Arthur sighs again. They exhaust him.

“Did you need something, Morgana?” he asks.

She turns to him. “I wanted to let you know that the princess is settling in quite nicely.” Oh, he is so happy. “Since the wedding is not for a few more days, I wonder if, perhaps, in the meantime, you’d like to gift her with something? To impress her, earn her affections?”

That may very well require her and Merlin’s combined magic and maybe an actual intervention from the Gods. Assuming he is at all interested in her affections to begin with. “Like what?”

“A tournament to celebrate your engagement might be nice. It’s tradition,” Morgana says. “Our father had one before his wedding.”

“Right,” Arthur says, “you mean his wedding to _your_ mother, who he then waited mere years to betray with _mine_?”

Morgana purses her lips. “You could just give her flowers, I suppose,” she allows at length.

“I suggested a picnic in the royal gardens,” Merlin lets it be known, in a way that implies they should marvel at his cleverness. Neither Arthur nor Morgana do.

“Yes,” Arthur says, and pointedly looks to Morgana, “no chance of bandits there.”

Morgana seems to catch his meaning perfectly, expelling a quiet sigh. “We did not wish to worry you.” Until there comes a time where they need him to agree to something, he assumes. Like a mass execution of bandits or the like.

It’s not like he can’t see that they steer him through this reign, Merlin especially, like some particularly obtuse horse. Most days he’s glad of it because, for these things, he’s got all the sense of a horse too, but sometimes, he wishes he could actually live up to the solemn vows he made when they put that crown on his head. But that’s just not how it is.

“Just make arrangements for that picnic,” Arthur finally says, resigned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Here.”

Guinevere can hardly miss the spot Arthur refers to, the assortment of red and gold blankets and throw pillows smack in the middle of Camelot’s royal gardens. The last of the servants’ boots disappear behind a white rose bush, as they scurry away to leave her and their king to the picnic they have set for them.

She appreciates that she has been extended this gesture. The fact that she is now to spend time alone with Arthur, less so. But that he is not what she wanted and that Elyan is a liar does not change the reasons why she agreed to this marriage in the first place – as she has concluded herself while Nimueh said nothing and Sir Leon brought her flowers to make amends for nearly letting her die earlier –, and so Guinevere decides that getting used to his company will, at the very least, be a practical thing to do.

Arthur holds out a hand and helps her settle down onto the blankets. Guinevere immediately looks for the wine.

Camelot’s wine is her favorite, has always been her first choice to be served at dinner when the merchants brought it to Cameliard. It is, she thinks, one small pleasure she will still have in her decidedly bleak future.

Arthur might be of a similar mind as her because the wineskin is the first thing he reaches for, and pours them each a full cup. Guinevere raises her goblet to him before she brings it to her lips and he follows her example absently, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“This is a nice spot,” he comments nonetheless, in a way that lets her believe he wishes they didn’t have to talk as much as she does.

“Indeed,” she agrees anyway – and means it. Not only of the neatly-groomed, colorful parcels around them, but of the city itself, with its castle made of tall towers and old white stone that looms large over the houses that make the town which surrounds it. She has only ever seen renditions of it, drawn in charcoal and some color in various books and such. Seeing it now, she thinks the art has never quite done it justice.

Looking around, she adds, “These gardens are beautiful. You have many rare flowers here.”

“We do?” Arthur reacts with some delay. “I…know little of flowers.”

That’s funny, considering that in his letters, he once compared her to a rose blooming at dawn, shining with morning dew. On the one hand, she is relieved that he never wrote any of their correspondence himself, because that bit in particular was just…awful. On the other hand, he can’t even be bothered to keep up with his own lie.

Of course, it might be just that he is still obviously preoccupied with something else.

“You seem distracted, my lord,” she observes. “Is there something troubling you?”

His head swivels round to her, eyebrows jumping up as if in surprise. “Um, just…pressing matters of state, that’s all.”

“Would you like to share them with me?” Anything to save her from small talk.

“That…won’t be necessary.”

Guinevere deflates. There probably isn’t a pressing matter of state at all. He doesn’t care for those. These are just excuses. She still can’t believe her own brother has betrayed her in this way.

“Well,” she is too slighted to pretend she is anything other than put off, “if I am unnecessary in this matter, then I should at least like to be given fair warning if it ends in the kingdom’s downfall.”

“Uh…”

“Preferably _before_ someone puts my head on a spike.”

“It’s…it’s nothing quite that serious.” Arthur looks like he might laugh for a moment, then reconsiders at the expression on her face. He clears his throat, then makes a slight gesture with his hand, as if to indicate he is about to let her in on the whole thing. Guinevere marvels at the fact that one actually exists.

“The bandits earlier,” he says. “My council never told me about them. But apparently, it’s been going on a while. They’ve increased patrols and change their patterns often, but they’ve never managed to catch the bandits by surprise. They always somehow elude them.”

No bandit is that lucky. “Have they shared any ideas as to why that might be?”

“They have not.”

“What do you think?”

He seems genuinely surprised to be asked. “It…is unlikely that they would be so lucky all the time,” he says after a false start. Guinevere nods. “It is as if they know which parts of the woods to avoid beforehand.”

“Indeed,” she agrees. Regretfully, she adds, “They’re being told where not to go. Someone’s betrayed you.”

Arthur’s shoulders slump. “Thought it might be so.”

It is Guinevere’s turn to be surprised. His answer shows forethought, understanding…interest in affairs of the kingdom. “Unfortunately, every king must contend with traitors,” she recovers quickly.

“Would it still be so if I was a better king?” he mutters.

She cannot answer that, and truth be told, she is not sure he is wrong. “Whatever moves him,” she says instead, “this traitor cannot be allowed to remain in the court of Camelot. He must be found.”

Arthur bobs his head, then stops and shakes it, chuckling under his breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. She frowns. “This isn’t, um – we’re supposed to be having a nice talk, not discussing traitors and…matters of state.”

“Yet, matters of state are the one thing we are sure to have in common. I hope,” she adds slowly, “you did not expect me to be the sort of queen who spends her days floating around the palace, without any concerns on the wellbeing of the kingdom whatsoever.”

There is a beat before he replies, “Well, I do not expect it now.”

She can’t quite tell if he’s pleased or unhappy as he says it. His mouth twitches at her narrowed eyes. “I’m glad,” he assures.

“Good,” she concludes, satisfied, and drinks to that. Arthur does, too, but he’s looking at her differently, like he might be seeing her for the first time, biting into his lip. Her eyes linger on the sight for a moment.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Arthur tilts his head, like if he considers her from another angle, she might make more sense. “You just saw right through this matter. It was the work of a moment. I’m…impressed,” he admits, and she is not immune to flattery. Of course, he immediately puts a dent in his good work when he adds, “You _are_ wise.”

He sounds almost perplexed at the notion, but she supposes that, if she can mistake him for a freeloader, she can also forgive him for thinking of her as an airhead.

“You saw through it, too,” she reminds.

“Barely,” he dismisses. “I wasn’t sure if I was right. To be honest, I hoped I was wrong.”

Guinevere feels a strange swell of sympathy. It is perhaps what moves her when she says, “Nonetheless, you seem to have good instincts. You should rely on them.”

After the apparent shock of receiving a compliment wanes, he offers her a grateful smile. It’s caught her attention already, even before she knew who he was, and she cannot deny that he is handsome. Broad shoulders, blue eyes, and a golden head of hair. She finds his voice quite appealing, too.

There is, however, a hint of bitterness in it as he says, “Is it really a good thing that my instincts tell me there is conspiracy at every turn?”

“Well, not… _every_ turn.”

“Only most of them. For example,” he begins, “when we first started corresponding, I wondered why all our letters had to be so elaborate and…filled with meaning and such. Then, about a month in, Merlin told me that it was because there was every chance that any number of people could read them before they reached you, or me. Anyone from my court, or yours, anyone who paid the rider a few coins along the way, even.” There is no doubt he considers this to be something out of the realm of true madness.  “It turns out we were prattling on for appearances only.”

Guinevere chuckles at him calling their exchanges ‘prattle’. “Well, _Merlin_ was right to choose to write the way he did.” There is a beat before Arthur catches on that _she’s_ caught on, before he ducks his head and smiles. Rubbing her lips together, Guinevere asks, “May I speak freely, my lord?”

“If you want.”

“This alliance must _appear_ strong,” she says bluntly, though she keeps her tone gentle. “The true strength of it lies in the terms we have agreed upon and shall uphold, but we cannot share those with everyone. So, it is important to convey it in other ways. One of them, is to have the world believe that we are bound by more than just politics. It is a small thing, but it might dissuade those who do not wish to see this alliance come to be. Hence,” she offers him a rueful smile, “our elaborate courtship. All tradition in such matters aside.”

Arthur watches her with an inscrutable look on his face. “I don’t understand,” he says after a while. “Why would anyone oppose this alliance to the point that we must work so hard to fool them? Who doesn’t want to live in peace?”

He has a grain of potential, some raw and untrained sense for this job. She will grant him that. But he is yet far from having the mind of a true king.

“Those who thrive when there is war and discord.” She shrugs. “Warlords, thieves, smugglers who take advantage of the lack of trade, slave traders who capture those who flee the violence…or even just those who only care for their own wealth and power. Peace is not conductive to gathering endless land and riches in your name. Such people are by far outnumbered by those who do long for peace,” she assures, “but they are a reality of these troubled times.”

“This is all far more complicated than I knew,” Arthur mutters. He rips a grape off the stem, shoves it into his mouth then chews in silence, and every movement is simply fraught with defeat. He reminds Guinevere of a kicked pup.

“Perhaps,” she says, kindly, “but I truly do believe, that what we have a chance to accomplish will, in time, be worth all of it and more.”

 It does perk him up a bit. He raises his cup to her again, and toasts, “To our union, then.”

She clinks her cup to his and drinks. His _heart_ is not in it any more than hers is, but it is clear to her now, if not before, that he does understand why they are to come together in marriage. By the looks of him, she imagines it is not the sort of thing he is used to, the same way he is not used to conspiracy.

In the end, Guinevere asks, “You hoped to marry for love, didn’t you?”

He simply returns it with, “Doesn’t everyone?”

“What we hope for, and what we might truly expect,” she says, “are two entirely different things.”

There is a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “That might be true. In our case, however,” he adds, a touch hesitantly, I’m not sure if it is a good thing.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, um, I know we did not get off to the best start,” he acknowledges, to which she concedes with a nod, “and that we are quite different, in many ways. I’m not sure if I can expect it, but I hope,” he says with meaning, “that…we can at least be friends?”

Guinevere smiles, and it is entirely genuine. “Of course.”

In return, he grins. And Guinevere, to her own surprise, is charmed. Arthur offers her the plate of assorted pastries next, and begins pointing out all the ones he thinks are the tastiest. When it comes to food, she learns, his judgement is impeccable.

Perhaps she’s judged him too quickly, she thinks as they continue to sit in the afternoon sun. Perhaps Elyan never lied at all. And, perhaps, her future here will not be so bleak after all.       

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“So?” Merlin accosts him before Arthur has even fully come to a stop, where he lurks by the door of the royal chambers. Arthur wonders how long Merlin has been standing there, hat and all, just waiting for him to return from the picnic like the world’s most conspicuous creeper.

Pausing, Arthur looks over his shoulder down the hall. Guinevere stands by the door to her own quarters and lingers a moment, giving him a small, sweet smile before she finally enters and goes out of sight.

Arthur shrugs. “She’s not so bad.”


	5. And I Take Thee

“Rise and shine!”

Bright morning sunlight assaults his eyes and Arthur groans and rolls away, burying his face in the pillow. Remnants of whatever he’d been dreaming about still flitter through his consciousness, and though Arthur can’t quite remember what that was, he has vague notions of pleasant things and Guinevere’s face. Of course, that might be just because he’s marrying her today.

_Wait –_

He springs up in his bed, suddenly fully awake. And with an audience.

There are people gathered in his chambers, from Merlin standing by the drapes he’s drawn to Morgana who idles at the foot of the bed, to a horde of manservants who keep quiet behind her.

Arthur draws the covers further up his chest, feeling on display. “What is this?”

“It’s your wedding day, Arthur,” Morgana says, unbothered. “Preparations must begin as soon as possible.”

“Uh…” Arthur glances around her, to the boy he knows as George and who holds what can only be Camelot’s entire supply of bath salts in his arms. Behind him and his friends, the bathtub itself is filled and ready, giving off a nice cloud of steam.

“Do you want to marry a princess smelling like the stables?” Merlin asks.

Still preoccupied with what else he’s managed to sleep through, Arthur takes a moment to answer. “No?”

“There you go then.”

Like with questions of state, no one actually seems to need with for anything else in this matter either. Merlin putters about, muttering spells that make flowers appear in odd corners of the room and changes the drapes’ color from maroon to bright red. The servants snap into action under Morgana’s commands, wherein she utters words such as, _‘scrubbing,’_ and, _‘mud mask,’_ and rattles off names of herbs, seeds and oils in quick succession.

Arthur doesn’t know what most of them are, but he is sure he’s once heard one mentioned when describing a method of torture designed to drive men to madness then gouge their own eyes out.

Gripped with a wave of fresh panic, he latches onto Merlin’s sleeve as the latter passes the bed. “What are they going to do to me?”

Merlin just sighs and pats his hand, the way one does for a man about to face the gallows.

If this is his fate, Arthur thinks as he is being led to it, then he can only imagine what horrors await Guinevere.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Lavender or gillyflower, m’lady?”

“Mm, lavender,” Guinevere decides, sinking further into the soothing warmth of the bathtub. The quarters she uses are absolutely quiet, save for her new maid – a young, quiet girl named Eira, who readily follows her command.

Guinevere has plucked the girl from the servant body herself, to act as her handmaid from here on out, electing to hire someone from Camelot rather than haul her own maid down from Cameliard with her. She thinks it’s only fair, giving work to someone from the kingdom she will soon call her own, too.

Well, that, and she was loath to separate her old maid from her family.

Eira makes efficient work of massaging the lavender oil into her hair then running through it with a comb, and Guinevere closes her eyes, resting her head against the tub’s edge.  

She has tasked Leon with going over security for the ceremony with Camelot’s knights, which she hopes will gain him fast friends here. Just as she has tasked Lady Caelia and Lady Elaine – who had jumped at the opportunity to travel away from their fathers and brothers and come with her – to oversee that everything is in order in the throne room and the great hall, with much the same idea in mind.

She goes over the events of the day one more time – the wedding, the greeting of the people, then the feast to celebrate it all. If she dwells on logistics and detail, then she doesn’t have to dwell on what it all really means.

“You will look beautiful, m’lady,” Eira comments.

Guinevere sighs. “Thank you, Eira.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You will look very handsome, my lord.”

Arthur, who sits in a now lukewarm stew of his own filth, with clay drying on his face and some kind of grease in his hair, says, “Thank you, George.”

George, ever so consummate in his profession, merely nods, lifts Arthur’s arm out of the water by the wrist, and begins vigorously scrubbing his armpit.

Never in his adult life has any one person taken to bathing him like a child, much less half a dozen of them, and so Arthur is quickly growing quite uncomfortable with this whole endeavor. But it is a nice thing to not have to do anything, he supposes. Not even lift his own arms. He might even get used to it.

To avoid thinking of the second boy who has come around to scrub down his other side, Arthur lets himself wonder again if Guinevere has to go through this sort of madness, too.

Probably. But she, probably, is used to it.

He smiles, as much as the thick layer of hardened dirt on his face allows, while he thinks of her. They’ve spent some time together since their picnic, where he showed her around Camelot – the castle, the training grounds, and parts of the upper town – and now that their wedding day has arrived, Arthur honestly feels much better about the whole thing.

She discusses state matters with him. She tells him of histories he doesn’t know if he asks. She speaks with ever-growing freedom of what a good king should and should not be, and Arthur, unlearned in the matter as he is, desperately needs the lesson. But she teaches him well. He thinks she might even like him.

All in all, she has been more forthcoming with him in four days than his entire court has been in four months, and so Arthur has, naturally, fast-developed a soft spot for her.

The bed, which has been stripped and remade, is near directly in his line of sight from this spot and his thoughts gradually begin to stray, from how clever she is to how lovely she looks – how nice her hair smells, and how appealing her skin seems.

He in no way enjoys the same reputation that the likes of Gwaine do when it comes to pleasing ladies, but he thinks she won’t be disappointed, at least.

They might have some fun. There might be some wine and he might make her smile some with a funny story before he kisses her, then pulls her closer. She might ask him to help her with the ungodly number of ties and ribbons on her dress, and then –

As if sensing this line of thinking, George dumps a fresh bucket of cold water right over his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You look lovely.”

Guinevere meets Elyan’s eyes in the mirror, where he stands behind her, clad in his blue cloak and armor, and watches her with a soft smile.

She returns it. “Essylt did a remarkable job.”

Essylt, Cameliard’s royal seamstress who had been dressing since she was a babe and secretly taught her how to sow when she was a girl, had worked as laboriously on her wedding dress as a king would on a peace treaty.

The fabric was worked and reworked by the way of an especially delicate negotiation until it earned its pure ivory color. The white pearls and jewels were measured, polished, and meticulously put together in patterns as complicated as the taxation terms on trade deals. The embroidered work of gold and silver flowers was done with as much attention to detail as the phrasing used to avoid loopholes that would allow the other side to profit and break the treaty. The assisting seamstresses were worked to the bone the way serving girls and boys are in preparation for the foreign king’s visit.

Each time Guinevere went to check in on the progress of this masterpiece, Essylt would tear up, reach for her handkerchief, and start telling her stories about her mother.

“When has she not?” Elyan says as he steps closer, carrying something in his hand. He opens his palm and, in the glass, Guinevere catches the dull shine of worn silver.

“Father’s betrothal band,” she whispers.

“I thought you might give it to Arthur.” Elyan nods. “It’s an old tradition, granted, but if it brings you luck, why not?”

It is simple, still perfectly round, and chipped where Elyan had accidently struck it with a fork when he was a boy. She watches it, perfectly nestled in the leather of his glove, and from one moment to the next, it all becomes real.

That she is about to leave home, that the rest of her life will belong to a place she does not yet know, to people who do not yet know her, and a man who is yet a stranger.

She has seen this day coming since the time she was a child. But now that it is here, and if only for a moment, her heart revolts at the notion.

Arthur said that he’d hoped to marry for love. As she looks on her father’s band, that he wore on his hand each time he patted her hair, held her mother and played knights with her brother, Guinevere thinks that perhaps she truly should have, too.

“Thanks,” she mutters as she takes it from Elyan. He must sense her mood because he places a gentle hand on her shoulder and turns her around to face him.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she says, forcing levity into her voice.

Elyan sighs under his breath, and gives her an encouraging look. “I’m sure you will be happy here.”

She shrugs. “Does it matter either way?”

“Gwen…” Elyan sighs. He used to call her that when he was still young, and _Guinevere_ was still too long a word for him to say.

She smiles. “It’s all right.”

“Father would never forgive me if you were unhappy,” he says.

Father understood that some things were more important than just how much he loved her, and others still much bigger than just her one, lone heart. And she does, too.

“Father,” she says, “would be proud. Of the both of us. For making this alliance come to be, at long last.”

“Yeah,” Elyan agrees, even smiling a little. Then he gathers her in a hug. “But I will miss you.”

Guinevere closes her eyes, and wraps her arms around him in kind. “And I you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur cocks his head at his reflection in the mirror, then rights the clasp of his cloak so it sits perfectly straight. Much like with bathing him, getting him into his armor had apparently been a six-person job.

They’ve all scurried away now, after he finally lost his temper and snapped at them to just leave him be, _‘for the love of Camelot!’_ , though not before they left his crown for him on the table, polished to the point that it might blind a man.

He is so preoccupied with watching the light catch on it that it takes him a moment to realize that he is, once more, not alone.

“Yg – my lady,” he says, catching her eyes in the mirror, and watches as her face falls. He doesn’t know if it grieves her more when he calls her by her name or her title. Either way, it’s the best he can do.

There is no doubt that he is her son. He shares so many of her traits, from her pale complexion to her fair hair and blue eyes. It makes sense that he is hers in a way that it never had with Alice. But he still cannot look at her and just say, _“Mother.”_

“Am I disturbing you?” she asks.

“Um, no – no, not at all,” Arthur assures. She takes this as permission to come closer, smiling faintly as she looks him over.

“The knight’s wear becomes you,” she says.

“Thanks.” Arthur manages a real smile.

Ygraine pauses by the table, then lifts the crown from its cushion by the tips of her fingers and comes to stand right behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, Arthur turns and bends his head to where she can reach.

“And so does this,” she says as she places the crown on him. Arthur is not so sure about that part, but he nods in thanks anyway, straightening again as she steps back.

After a moment, she asks, “How are you feeling?”

“I…I’m all right.”

“Good.” She nods, pleased. “I’m sure you will be happy.”

“Um,” Arthur chuckles, shrugging a little, “I – I think so, too.”

Ygraine’s smile widens. “I could hope for nothing more,” she tells him, like she is just so proud. As if she’s really been his mother this whole time, and it just warms her heart so to see her son off on his wedding day.

Arthur congratulates himself when he manages to supress the grimace that threatens to break forth.

If she notices anything, Ygraine doesn’t say, but she moves to take one of the rings she wears off her finger, then holds it out in the palm of her hand.

Arthur stares at it, nonplussed.

“It’s an old tradition,” Ygraine says, “for a husband or wife to gift the other with an heirloom or a band passed down from other marriages in their families. It’s meant to bring luck.”

He doesn’t know all the details, true, but ‘lucky’ is not how he would describe _her_ marriage on any given day.

“It belonged to my mother,” she says, as if sensing his wariness. “She and my father were quite happy together. So, I thought you might want to give this to Guinevere.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Relieved, Arthur lets her transfer the band into his own hand. It is quite simple and elegant, with a pattern of flowers carved into the silver. He thinks Guinevere might like it. She likes flowers in any case.

“Have no fear,” Ygraine chuckles after a moment, “I would not invite my fate with Gorlois into _your_ marriage.”

“What – no, I – I didn’t mean to – ”

“It’s all right,” she says. “I know I made a mistake when I betrayed him with your father. It doesn’t matter how lonely I was. But,” her voice softens, “though Uther was a mistake, I have never once regretted you.”

She raises her hand as if she might touch his face, then stops when he stiffens and lets it drop back down. “In any case…” She clears her throat when her voice catches. “I just wanted to wish you luck, my – ” She sighs. “Lord.”

Arthur swallows, then nods. “Thank you…my lady.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The horns are blown and the doors open to let her through, revealing the attendees who turn their heads to her as one, from the threshold where she idles all the way to the two thrones that stand at the far end.

Though the details blur from this distance, Guinevere spies the unmistakable shape of Geoffrey of Monmouth as she walks down the middle aisle, where he stands facing her on the steps to the thrones, in his black robes and the heavy golden and silver chains that hang around his neck.

A step down from him, is Arthur. The closer she draws, the clearer he becomes, from the tips of his polished boots to the shining metal of his chainmail, and down again to the hem of his red cloak, emblazoned with the seal of the Pendragons. On his head, his golden crown catches the light of the sun that streams through the tall windows.

And as he stands, clad so in a king’s garb, with his ceremonial sword strapped to his belt and his hands clasped behind his back, she thinks it all suits him quite well.

She’s nearly there and his face comes into focus, along with the expression he wears, like someone’s just clobbered him ‘round the head with a sizeable mace.

She stifles laughter at the thought.

It takes Geoffrey clearing his throat – loudly – for Arthur to remember to offer her his hands to hold. They are big and warm as she takes them, and, perhaps, a touch clammy.

The weight of it all comes down on her again as she turns to face him. She can’t escape the reality of the what she has promised to do when he stands so close, when her eyes have nothing to rest on but his face. This is the only thing she will see for the rest of her life.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen of Camelot,” Geoffrey begins, speaking to the assembled guests, “we are gathered here to celebrate, by the ancient rite of handfasting, the union of Arthur Pendragon and Guinevere Leodogran.”

There is like a crushing weight upon her chest, as her stomach ties itself into a knot and her breakfast threatens to return to the surface. But Arthur runs his thumbs over knuckles, as if to soothe her, then gives her a little smile, and maybe, that makes it just a little better.

“Is it your wish, Arthur,” Geoffrey asks, “to become one with this woman?”

It takes Arthur a moment. “It is.”

“And is it your wish, Guinevere,” Geoffrey proceeds, “to become one with this man?”

It is her wish for their kingdoms, at least. “It is,” she says.

“Do any say nay?”

Part of her longs for someone to. For her brother to step from his spot in the front row and say that he needs her in Cameliard instead of here. For Nimueh to stand tall and proclaim, in suitably dramatic fashion, that she has foreseen terrible things will come from this union and so it cannot proceed. For her father to rise from the dead just to say this isn’t what he wants after all.

None of it happens, and the other part of her, that part which knows better, is relieved.

When the appropriate amount of time has passed and no one speaks, a garland makes its way into Geoffrey’s hold, which he then begins to wrap around her and Arthur’s joined hands.

“With this garland,” he says, “I do tie a knot and by doing so, bind your hands and your hearts for all eternity.”

That is…such a long time.

No sooner has she thought it that Arthur’s mouth has already formed the words, as if he’s been muttering them to himself. Oddly, it is finally the thing that calms her, when he catches himself then, wide-eyed, mutters a, _“sorry.”_

In return, she shushes him under her breath. He clamps his mouth shut.

It is unfortunate timing, as he is meant to begin reciting his vows. Geoffrey has to physically nudge him.

“Oh, I, yes – ” He clears his throat, shifting to stand straighter. “I, Arthur…Pendragon, King of Camelot,” he says, “I shall not seek to, uh…uh…”

_“Change thee,”_ Guinevere mouths.

“Change thee, in any way. I shall, um…”

_“Respect thee.”_

“Respect thee, as I respect myself.”

He gets through the rest of it with no fault in his phrasing and _only_ needs her help on three more occasions. Guinevere is sure she hears Merlin sigh from somewhere in the audience. Twice.

“I, Guinevere Leodogran, Princess of Cameliard,” she undertakes her own vows, and has much better luck with getting through them, if only because her mouth knows them so well that her mind need barely even get involved.

Arthur’s cheeks are tinged with red each time she proceeds seamlessly where he has faltered.

“And I take thee,” she finally says, “to be my lawfully wedded husband, from this day forth, for as long as we both shall live.”

“Then, by the powers vested in me,” Geoffrey speaks once more, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

They are not in love. And their match is not the particularly heaven-made kind. But they are in it together now.

She has barely made her peace with that when her mind catches up to the fact that Arthur’s eyes are closing and his head is lowering. Somehow, that he kisses her is the one part of this ceremony that truly takes her by surprise.

It is sweet, and soft, and lasts barely longer than a heartbeat, but Guinevere’s eyes drift shut for the one moment anyway. When she opens them again, Arthur’s got the tiniest of smiles on his face.

Their hands are untied and Arthur keeps hold of one of hers, with her fingers gently folded over his, as the crowd claps for them when they turn to face it.

Elyan is grinning from ear to ear. The image is more striking still on Merlin, where is smiling so widely it nearly takes up half his face. Morgana only looks relieved.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They have been standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard for a quarter of an hour and the crowd gathered below has been cheering for just as long, waving banners and red and purple cloths.

Arthur is sure the people have never cheered for him like this.

But they love Guinevere. They do not even know her and yet they love her, like all they’ve done their whole lives is just wait for her to come here and be their queen. Maybe they just like weddings. Or maybe Arthur is finally starting to understand exactly how her reputation helps his.

She has the biggest smile on her face, too, and Arthur can’t deny that he is taken by the sight. She seems genuinely happy that they like her, that they’ve accepted her, and it makes Arthur like her more still, too.

She turns away from the crowd to face him, still with that smile, and only says, “Kiss me.”

He really doesn’t need to be told twice. He lowers his mouth to hers again, longer this time, long enough to truly feel the fullness of her lips, their softness, and long enough to truly enjoy it. Certainly long enough for the crowd to sound off as loudly as a dozen war drums announcing a hundred war horses that are coming down a hill of a thousand crashing stones.

They have _absolutely_ never cheered for him alone like this.

When he and Guinevere retreat back into the relative silence of the palace, her cheeks are still flushed.

“The people like you,” he says as he escorts her to the quarters that are still there for her use, so that she may change her dress before they are to attend the feast that will be held in their honor.

“I think so.” She nods. “I’m glad. A queen who is not accepted by the people has no true crown at all.”

His appreciation for her wisdom grows with each passing moment. “I’m glad, too,” he says. “That I will have someone at my side who understands that it is the people who make a kingdom, not the other way around. We are as much their servants as they are ours.”

The fond look of approval she gives him in return does nothing short of lifting his heart.

“And what about you?” he asks after a moment. “Do you like them?”

She blinks like she doesn’t understand the question. “Um…” She shakes her head a little. “All…people are to be loved by their queen.”

“Right. I suppose, uh, you don’t really know them yet.” He purses his lips. “We could – you know, we could take a walk through the lower town, um…perhaps tomorrow, after the crowning ceremony. So you could get to meet them. If – if you want.”

She smiles. Again. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”

In return, he grins. “Excellent.”

They’ve just about arrived at the quarters, and when they linger by the doors, Arthur seizes the opportunity to ask, “Um, may I come in? Just for a moment. I…I’d like to give you something.”

She allows it and lets him in, and Arthur surreptitiously looks over the room to try and find some indication that she had been subjected to the same regimen of torture that he had been that morning. But everything is perfectly in place.

Guinevere stands waiting expectantly while he eases the door shut. Arthur reaches for the gift where he’s kept it wedged between his sleeve and his gauntlet, and it is only as he holds the ring between his fingers that it fully, truly dawns on him that he is about to give it to his _wife._

Not just a pretty girl he likes kissing. Nor just one who is possibly the wisest person he has ever met. Not even just a princess then a queen. His wife. They are married. _Forever._

He stares at the ring he holds and Guinevere stares at him in absolute silence, until she finally prompts, “My lord?”

Arthur starts, then shakes his head to clear it. “Here.” He steps closer, presenting it to her in the palm of his hand. “It belonged to my – to, um – to Lady Ygraine.”

Guinevere does not comment, but she looks about as wary as he had felt, so he adds, “It belonged to her mother before her. She…had a happy marriage, by all accounts. It’s meant to bring luck. So, I thought…you might like to have it?”

“Thank you,” Guinevere says softly and holds out her hand so that he may slip it onto her finger, where it rests perfectly. The corner of her mouth lifts a little, too, and Arthur thinks it might be because of the flowers.

“I actually have something like this for you, too.” She goes and returns a moment later with a ring of her own that she presents to him. It’s chipped in one spot.

“It belonged to my father,” she begins with a fondness that Arthur has not heard in her voice before. “My mother had given it to him. He wore it always, from the time they were married until the day he died. And…I’d like you to have it.”

“Oh.” Arthur’s stomach drops a little, because while he’s just doing what he was told, this token actually means something to her. It is perhaps why his voice is hushed when he says, “Thank you. I’m honored.”

It seems to please her that he is as she slips the band onto a finger of his left hand. Her fingers brush against his for a moment more as their eyes meet, and they linger so for a while longer, until Guinevere’s hand finally falls away.

And then there is silence.

It grows quite awkward quite quickly. “Um…” Arthur fidgets in the spot. “I should – I should get ready for the feast as well.”

“Yes – yes, and I should – ”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“I will, uh…” Arthur nods, turning to leave. “I will see you again in a bit, then.”

“And I you, my lord.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She sits next to him at the head table, overlooking the festivities that are well underway around them.

There is music, dancing, wine, and, as Arthur was horrified to learn, bards who have chosen to write songs about him and Guinevere. He cannot guess which man they used as inspiration for these great works, but it is most certainly not him. He also has a sneaking suspicion that Merlin had something to do with it.

Merlin himself is keeping by one of the walls, caught in conversation with Elyan and the knights of Cameliard, though their party grows thinner and thinner, as various ladies leave various lords for the pleasures of more novel, knightly company. Arthur finds the looks on the lords’ faces as they are so abandoned impossibly funny.

He searches for Morgana in the room and finds her engaged with Nimueh. He cocks his head at them, wondering what they might be conspiring about and about Nimueh herself, how she knows Ygraine in the first place – but then Guinevere laughs as Gwaine approaches them, and he is promptly distracted.

She is beautiful.

The red dress she wears now is befitting of a queen in every way, and when she had first entered the great hall, Arthur had reacted to the sight of her with a quiet gasp and a hearty, _“Gods have mercy.”_ Which had, in the end, earned him laughs from at least three different knights.

Gwaine struts up to the table, to compliment the future queen and give her a single white daisy as a token of his appreciation. It seems an awful gift until he explains that the flower is magic, that it shall never neither wilt nor die. “Just as my loyalty to you never shall either, Princess,” he says.

The way he stands makes Arthur think that he is trying to make himself seem as dashing as possible, too. Like a preening peacock.

Guinevere is still chuckling after he leaves them. “Some of your men have unusual ways.”

Arthur nods. “I wish I could say they’re not always like this.”

“Mm, well,” she says, “I do not think it will take me long to be used to it. And you _had_ spoken to me some about a few of them, so I am not entirely surprised.”

“I was easing you into it.”

She turns to him now, eyebrow raised and curiosity in her eyes. “What else should I know?”

Arthur drinks from his goblet, then points it towards Morgana and, at the opposite end of the room, Merlin. “The two of them,” he says. “They are not foes, exactly, but every now and again, you may be woken in the morning by Morgana asking for Merlin’s head on a pike because he’s hid all of her potions from her.”

“I see.” Guinevere nods sagely.

“And that – ” Arthur points to a new figure – “is Sir Kay. He sleepwalks. So if ever, in the middle of the night, you hear a man having lively discussions with a dragon, that’s him.” He meets her eyes, then adds, “Sometimes, Merlin pretends to be the dragon.”

Guinevere shakes with silent laughter, until it inevitably spills out of her. To Arthur’s ears, it sounds lovelier than any song the minstrels have played tonight. He grins.

The look in Guinevere’s eyes softens as she winds down, her laughter becoming no more than a fond smile. She reaches to cover one of his hands with hers, and Arthur’s heart skips a beat.

When she doesn’t speak, Arthur softly urges, “What is it?”

“I just – ” She shakes her head a little. “I just wanted to say, I…I am glad we understand each other.”

Arthur cocks his head. “How do you mean?”

“Well…” She rubs her lips together. “The truth is, for a moment I feared that you did not realize why this union was to be. But you do. I knew that the first day I met you. And I am glad, because it means that you care for the future of our kingdoms.”

Arthur smiles. “As do you.”

“Yes, and I am relieved that you are so willing to do all that needs to be done,” she goes on. “That you _have_ done everything to let everyone here believe that we are in love, because it strengthens our alliance. You understand what we must do for the good of Albion.”

_For the good of –_ oh.

His heart sinks. They’re pretending they’ve married for love so that their alliance may appear stronger to those who wish to break it. That’s what she’s been doing. Like she said she would.

And so, the kiss on the balcony, the exchanged rings, her closeness to him – they’re just part of the charade. None of it was real.

Right.

“Yes, my lady,” Arthur says quietly, “we understand each other perfectly.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Have you come to steal my potions again?”

Merlin looks over his shoulder to the doorway where Morgana stands, the very image of mistrust. He supposes it is to be expected, when he is alone in her quarters past the witching hour, sitting on her bench with a goblet in his hand.

“Not tonight, my lady,” he says.

She makes no move to strike or turn him into a woodyard animal as she is wont to do, but she does still watch him through narrowed eyes as she comes closer.

“Why do you look so unhappy?” she asks. “Today has given us much to celebrate.”

Indeed. And Merlin has been delighted all through it, from the wedding ceremony to the feast that has followed it into the night. But it is, perhaps, precisely at times of great joy that he is most prone to reflection.

“I am happy,” he says. “Tomorrow, Camelot will at last have the king and queen it deserves.”

Morgana lowers herself onto the bench next to him, eyebrows raised. “Then why are you in this mood? This is what we have worked for.”

Merlin nods, then looks away. “I just wonder. Did we do the right thing?” he asks, ever so quietly. “Making Arthur king? Making Guinevere his queen?” He swallows. “Killing Uther?”

The crackling of the fire in the hearth is all he hears for a long, long time.

Then, Morgana says, with unwavering conviction, “Sometimes, we must do what we believe is right. And damn the consequences.”

Well, they have certainly done that, Merlin thinks, as he stares at the shelves that line the walls. He remembers which one he picked the poison from. And which one they chose so it would leave no trace.

“This is hardly the time to start having doubts about this, Merlin,” Morgana comments.

“You do say wise things sometimes,” he allows, then raises his goblet in honor of it.

After a moment, Morgana adds, “I spoke to Nimueh tonight.”

Merlin chuckles. Nimueh, the famed High Priestess, unparalleled in her knowledge of the ancient prophecies. Returning to Camelot after half a lifetime. “What does she say?”

“That it is Arthur’s destiny to be king.” Morgana shrugs. “That it is Guinevere’s to be queen. And you, who have always believed in such things, should find comfort in that.”

He has always been the type. Which is why all he can do is just nod his head once more.

“So, cheer up, Merlin,” Morgana tells him. “We have done the right thing. And we did it for Camelot.”

“For Camelot,” he agrees and brings the goblet to his lips, then tips it all the way back.


	6. All The Great Tales

Guinevere’s first day as queen in no way starts the way these things do in the great tales.

She shifts in the bed, still on the edge of sleep. She stretches, only half-awake, and bumps into something large and warm.

Something large and warm that also faintly snores.

Her eyes fly open. There is someone in there with her.

She shoots up in the bed and screams before her mind has even fully caught up. In response, the pile of limbs beside her flails, gives out a loud yelp, rolls, then crashes to the floor.

It is only when his head comes up over the edge of the bed, eyes wide and hair sticking out every which way, that she remembers.

She is married. The man she has screamed off the bed is her husband, the king.

Her husband the king, who made her wait and wait alone in this bed on their wedding night, only to show well past the witching hour, climb in with her as if she were a dragon instead of a woman, then tell her that they were both tired from all the feasting, and the dancing – that which he called dancing, that which she called stepping on every last one of her toes – and all that, and that they should just get some rest.

Then he promptly turned on his side and went to sleep. It was – awkward.

It is no less awkward now.

“I’m sorry,” she says, hands over her mouth.

Arthur rises slowly, probably trying to appear dignified as he gingerly rubs his back. “That’s all right.”

Neither speak after that. Guinevere bites her lip, racking her brain for something to say. Despite all her courtly training, she comes up empty.

Meanwhile, Arthur fidgets in the spot then turns to peek through the drapes. He draws them back to reveal the early sun that has just begun to rise above the kingdom.

“It’s barely dawn,” he says.

She can see that. As well as she can see the lines of his body through the white linen sleepshirt he wears, put on display quite nicely even in the faint morning light.

She cannot deny that he is handsome. Nor that she enjoyed the two kisses they shared.

“Well, then,” she says, tucking her legs to the side as she sits up in the bed, “it will be hours yet until the servants come. Perhaps…we can make up for the time that was lost last night?”

Arthur’s shoulders stiffen before he cranes his head around to look at her. He stares at her for a moment, then chuckles.

She frowns. “What?”

He slowly shakes his head but does not answer, and that familiar feeling of being put off builds inside Guinevere again. It has come and gone a few times since she has met him, and she had nursed it for _hours_ the previous night.

Just when she starts to think that he is not so bad, he proves her wrong.

“This marriage will never succeed if we are not honest with each other,” she tells him.

“This marriage is a pretense.”

She opens her mouth to respond, then clamps it back shut. It is the truth, but the way he says it sounds just a little too harsh.

“I thought you said you wanted us to be friends, my lord.”

“I do.” He sounds regretful, rubbing the back of his head. “And as you said, we understand each other. So, I understand that we must keep up appearances for the court, and the kingdom. That we should appear to be in love. But,” he says, holding her gaze, as if trying to convey some great meaning, “there is no reason we should do that when no one can see us.”

It takes an inordinately long time for it to sink in that he is, in fact, turning her down.

“Oh.”

“It is no offense to you,” he says quickly. “You’re…beautiful. I just – I wasn’t taught this way.”

Guinevere sighs, too. He grew up believing that one day, he would marry for love. She understands. After all, he is not exactly her heart’s desire, either.

Besides, as far as fulfilling their duty to their kingdoms goes, they are probably already doing their fair share.

“You’re right,” she says.

He looks relieved that she does not argue.

“There’s, um, there’s plenty of rooms in the palace,” he tells her. “You can settle into any one of them.”

“That would hardly make it appear as though we are in love,” she points out gently.

“Right. Well, then, I suppose I could sleep on the floor – ”

“You’re the king!”

His mouth twitches. “Then I guess this bed is big enough for the both of us. We will share it,” he decides. “As friends.”

It is, when put in perspective, probably not even strangest thing about their arrangement.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometime later, she meets him in the crowded throne room once more, much like she had the day before.

She kneels on the steps before him, head bare and wearing a dress in the shade of purple she favors. A page comes forth to present the queen’s crown, set carefully upon an embroidered pillow, to Arthur.

He picks it up by the tips of his fingers, holding it out high for all to see. Now when he speaks to the courtiers, he fares much better than he did with his wedding vows. Guinevere wonders if perhaps Merlin has arduously coached him while she was off getting dressed.

His expression is solemn, as the occasion calls for, and his voice grave as he says, “I crown you Guinevere, queen of Camelot.”

He slowly lowers the crown on to her head. Guinevere takes a deep breath when it touches her skin, her eyes drifting shut.

It is not her father’s crown. But it is better than nothing.

And maybe here, if not at home, she will have a hand in the betterment of a kingdom’s fate.

Arthur helps her stand and keeps light hold of one her hands as they turn to face the room, then proclaims, “Long live the queen!”

The first voice she hears say it back is Elyan’s, where he looks on her with pride from the first row. It spreads from his mouth to the next, then the next, until it takes up the whole room, and swells within it for yet some time.

This part, at least, looks exactly like it does in all the great tales.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As he has promised, Arthur takes her to the lower town after the ceremony, so that she may see and meet the people of Camelot.

He offers her his arm as they walk, though Guinevere finds him tense to her touch. It is as if he is less comfortable in her company than in the days before and for the life of her, she cannot say why. If anything, she would expect him to be more at ease, now that there is true understanding between them – about what they are and what they must do.

He is less chatty, too, and she means to ask about it but when they are surrounded by guards, knights and members of the court, it makes for too many prying ears.

Lady Elaine, walking just behind them, however, has no such qualms about who might hear her turn down one of Arthur’s knights as he tries to tell her of his affections. Guinevere bites back a smile.

Elaine, who is tall, strong and invariably wears bright colors that accentuate her dark skin and hair, has been turning men’s heads since Guinevere has known her. But Elaine, who has also travelled with her princess to get away from overbearing men, is no more likely to accept one’s courtship in Camelot than she was in Cameliard.

Paying no mind to the dejected knight, she instead resumes conversation with Lady Caelia, nearly lost from sight somewhere between Elaine’s skirts and another knight’s cloak. Shy as a mouse and just as small, Caelia only mutters things back. She holds in her hands a piece of parchment that Nimueh has enchanted to take note of the path they take so that it may, in the end, become a map – one that Caelia desperately needs, as her memory has never served her well. Guinevere once saw her get lost on a staircase.

The people come out of their homes to see their party pass. Some bow their heads to her and Arthur, others smile, and Guinevere halts, patting Arthur’s hand so that he may let her go. He does so without word or argument.

Her ladies follow as she comes closer. She touches the people’s hands, asks them for their names and what they do and hopes her memory will serve her better than Caelia’s to remember it all. She has brought with her a purse to give coin to those least fortunate – and one girl who says she wants a new dress as pretty as hers. Then another who tells her she wants to order a sword from the blacksmith so that she may train to be a knight.

“I wager we could forge her a better one,” Elaine mutters, shaking her head.

Her father, a blacksmith before Guinevere’s father had awarded him a lordship for services to Cameliard, has indeed taught her well.

Once, when she was a child, Guinevere pretended to be her and convinced an apprentice at the forge that she was the blacksmith’s daughter so that he may teach her how to make swords.

She came back to the palace with blisters on her hands and soot on her dress. Her father had laughed about it for days.

Elaine still laughs about it.

“You will have a chance to inspect the man’s work,” Guinevere promises.

The smiles she receives get wider and wider the further she goes, and so, lift her heart with them. It makes it easier to bear. To know that she is lost to Cameliard – that she is, now and forever, bound to a different place entirely.

Her gaze strays over her shoulder, looking for Arthur. He stands a little ways back, engaged in quiet conversation with Merlin. The latter has a bright smile on his face, which then slips as Arthur talks, until he looks troubled.

Guinevere wonders what that’s about – before she is promptly distracted by a small boy who, to his father’s horror, tugs on her skirts to get her attention.

His hands are covered in flour and yeast which leave the imprint of a little white fist on her dress, but Guinevere pays it no mind and listens as he tells her that it is his family who bakes the bread she eats in the palace and asks if she likes it. She says it is the best things she has ever tasted.

This time when her eyes find Arthur, there is a hint of a smile on his lips as he looks on her.

Her procession through the lower town ends shortly thereafter and she once again takes the king’s arm as they return to the castle.

“Long live the queen!” the people call as she leaves, and Guinevere wonders why no great tale ever says that it warms the heart so much more to hear it from them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A new feast comes as the sun begins to go down, just as grand as the last.

Guinevere sits wedged between Arthur and Morgana at the long head table, and once more, one after one, receives people of the court who wish her well and bring her gifts. These are no symbolic gifts as the flower Sir Gwaine has given her, but rather true offerings to the queen, as tradition dictates.

Elyan gifts her with a sword forged of the finest steel, its pommel wrapped in alternating strips of thick leather that has been dyed red and blue.

Arthur looks perplexed.

“It is a tradition in Cameliard,” Guinevere explains, “to gift a lady with a sword after she has married. It is meant to offer her protection even after she has left home. Her champion wields it for her.”

Expectedly, Arthur’s eyes slip to one of the tables in the hall, where Leon sits among the knights of Camelot, chatting away.

“I see,” he says. It is _all_ he says.

He is no more talkative this evening than he has been all day – quite the change from how he was at their wedding feast, when he hardly ever _stopped_ talking.

Guinevere purses her lips and ignores his mood, to instead lean over and smile at Elyan, where he sits on Arthur’s other side. “Thank you.”

He grins in response.

The knights of Camelot present her with no fewer than three chests, overflowing with all manner of gold and silver cups, candlesticks, spearheads and mostly jewels. They have gone on a quest before her arrival and travelled far and wide to find spoils that are worthy of Her Majesty. On this quest, they say, they have fought warlords, mercenaries, witches, goblins and one dragon.

A few lords and ladies offer her swaths of fine silk from foreign lands. Ruadan does the same with the furs of Ismere, with compliments of his young cousin, King Mordred. Geoffrey of Monmouth dedicates a wing of Camelot’s vast library to her. Lady Elaine gifts her with a carved wooden box with a whetstone inside it, _“so that she may use it to sharpen her sword,”_ and Merlin hands her a collection of potions with a wide range of uses, one of which is to turn men into frogs. Morgana gives her a dagger.

When Guinevere looks over to her, she merely smiles and shrugs, as if to say, “you never know when you might need to kill someone.”

Lady Ygraine passes on some exquisite pieces of jewelry to her, that she says have been in her family for generations. Guinevere can tell by the workmanship. When she kindly thanks Ygraine for the gifts, the latter sneaks a glance at Arthur little too eagerly, as if to check that he is pleased.

He does barely more than acknowledge her with a nod, and Ygraine’s face falls as she turns and walks back to her table.

Guinevere has wondered why she does not sit closer to her son. Now she is starting to see that, perhaps, while Ygraine and the world think of her as his mother, Arthur may not entirely share this opinion.

Lastly, the king’s gift is a deed to some of Camelot’s lands – a fact he may or may have been aware of by the way his eyebrows jump up before he schools his features – and a gold headpiece for her hair, with a single ruby at the front that should rest in the middle of her forehead.

Mindful of all the watchful eyes around, Guinevere gives him a fond smile and covers his hand with hers as she thanks him. Likely moved by the same idea, Arthur turns his hand over to gently hold hers, smiling back.

Of course, once the moment passes, he goes back to mostly not speaking to her unless prompted, and Guinevere remembers that he is in some kind of mood that she does not understand.

It makes it harder to do what she has planned as they slowly retire to their chambers at the end of the night, but it must be done – if only now with less enthusiasm on her part. In the moment, she sympathizes with Ygraine quite strongly.

Nonetheless, she stops their progress in the hallway and says, “I have something for you as well.”

His brow furrows, and she can practically see him trying to work out if this is another one of those traditions he is unaware of.

She leads him through the deserted council chambers and off to a side room. It is bare of any furniture or decoration – which is likely why that which she has placed within it stands out in such stark contrast.

When she looks over to Arthur, his features are slack as he stares straight ahead, mouth parted slightly. “What is that?”

Guinevere steps forward, running her fingers along the curved edge of the wood out of habit. “The Round Table,” she says. “It belonged to my father.”

Arthur comes closer, too, stopping at her side, and slowly holds out a hand toward the ancient wood himself. There is something almost reverent in the way that he touches his fingers to it.

“And his father before him,” Guinevere continues. “Every king and queen of Cameliard has held council at this table, since the days of the Old Kings. It is round,” she says, “so that no man or woman at it may be afforded greater importance than the other. All their voices matter the same. All sit here as equals.”

There is no light in the room but that of the moon which comes through the tall windows. Even so, the Round Table seems to absorb most of it, its stone, wood and runes perfectly clear in the night. Some of the light lingers in Arthur’s eyes, too, where they shine with something like wonder.

His amazement is, perhaps, a small comfort, Guinevere thinks, as she swallows and says, “It is yours.”

She looks away, down to where she traces one of the runes with the tips of her fingers. Moments pass, and then Arthur’s hand comes to rest over hers.

Guinevere slowly drags her eyes back up to meet his.

“It is ours,” he says, “at the very least.”

His strange mood seems gone now.

“This is your legacy,” he tells her. “Who am I to take that from you? Besides – ” he smiles faintly – “ _that_ would hardly uphold the values for which this table stands.”

It is as if a weight has been lifted off her chest. “You like it?”

Arthur nods slowly. He considers her for a moment longer, then adds, “It represents everything I have always believed Camelot should be.”

That, Guinevere thinks, is a much greater comfort still.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Guinevere’s first day as queen ends much like it started.

In bed with the king, both fully clothed, with a foot of mattress between them. It is still awkward.

At least no one is screaming this time.

“So,” Arthur drawls, eyes firmly trained to the ceiling, “I think today went okay.”

Guinevere nods vigorously, studying the overhead canopy with great interest. “I think so, too.”

“The people like you.”

“They are very sweet.”

“And the knights.”

“I was very impressed by their quest.”

“They are very proud of it.”

“It is well deserved, my lord.”

There is a beat before Arthur finally turns his head towards her. “Is there really a need for that now?” he asks. “You can just call me Arthur.”

Guinevere mirrors his actions, meeting his eyes. “Very well,” she agrees. “Arthur.”

“That’s better.” He gives her a crooked grin. “ _Guinevere._ ”

The way he says her name makes something flutter in her belly.

She hides it by readjusting the covers over her chest. “As you say, we are friends. It is only right that we should act like it.”

“Oh, I’ve never had a friend like you.”

Guinevere cannot quite suppress her smile, glancing at him askance. “Nor I,” she says softly.

They linger in silence for a time, until Arthur sighs. “I’m sorry.” When she raises an eyebrow, he adds, “For the way I acted today. I was, um…”

“In a mood?” Guinevere suggests.

“Something like that,” he allows. “I just – I was thinking too much. It won’t happen again. Because the the truth is,” he goes on, “whatever challenges we face, you and I have a common purpose. I’ll remember that.”

She will, too, Guinevere decides. After all, the road ahead is long and paved with uncertainty. As well as possibilities for him test the limits of her patience again.

“I believe we have the chance to accomplish great things,” she says. “For the future of Albion.”

Arthur nods, rubbing his lips together. “So far, we have a peasant, a princess and a table.”

This time, Guinevere breaks into a full smile. “Greater tales have started with far less.”

Arthur’s mouth lifts at the corners, too. “If you say so.”

He settles against the pillows, pulling the covers nearly to his chin. “Goodnight, Guinevere.”

“Goodnight, my – ” she starts, then sighs. “Arthur.”


	7. I Will Teach You

Yet another morning, Arthur wakes with a bad back and a stiff neck.

He will get used to this, he tells himself, as he clambers out of bed and tries to work out the kinks. There is a sickening crack.

When he chances a look over his shoulder, the reason for his troubles still sleeps soundly.

Sharing a bed as friends is all fine and well. He has convinced himself quite thoroughly that this is an _excellent_ idea, in fact – but he cannot relax in his sleep, stays curled on his side through the night and keeps the same awkward position from when the crickets sound at night to when the roosters start crowing in the morning. Once, he got so preoccupied that he was _breathing_ too loudly that he damn nearly choked to death trying not to make noise.

But it has only been a week, he supposes, and it might take some time to get used to not having a bed all to himself. Because it _is_ a brilliant plan they have put together and it is not as if he still likes her or anything. He is past that. So really, they should be perfectly comfortable to spend their nights inches away from each other. It’s just that his body is yet to understand this.

When he steps out of the sleeping quarters, breakfast is already set on the table and George stands waiting, as he does every morning.

“Good morning, sire.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “All right then, George,” he says with a firm nod of his head. “Let’s do this.”

That is another thing about married life that Arthur has to get used to : letting George whisk him away to the changing screen then proceed to dress him like a child.

On their second day as husband as wife, as he and Guinevere sat eating breakfast, George, as was his habit, came to stand at Arthur’s side. Arthur, as was _his_ habit, only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and said, _“No, George.”_

George protested, _“But, sir – ”_

_“I can still dress myself, thanks.”_

The wounded look on George’s face had never swayed him before, and it did not then, but Guinevere reached over and laid a gentle hand over his. _“It’s his job,”_ she said. _“Let him work.”_

When Arthur reemerged, all dressed up and still a bit troubled by how close his privates had come to slapping George in the face once or twice, Guinevere smiled at him and asked, _“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”_

As she said, he should let him work. Arthur would that everyone let _him_ do the same, but that’s really a different matter.

Now when he reemerges from behind the screen, Arthur is in a fresh pair of trousers and a red shirt under his brown leather vest, and because he is finally getting the hang of this, no part of him has ever once come too close to hitting George’s face.

However, not everything that comes with being married gives him nightmares about his manservant or an old man’s back. The Round Table, for instance, is more than Arthur could have ever hoped for. He _loves_ it.

The first day he held council at it, mostly just for show, his lords spent a good deal of time standing around it, confused for having no way to tell where they should sit.

_“Sit anywhere you like,”_ Arthur told them. _“We are all equals here.”_

That confused them even more.

As he walks past the bed again, Arthur pauses, his eyes lingering on Guinevere’s form for a moment.

Her brother left for Cameliard the day after her coronation. In the courtyard, as they stood side by side under the eyes of the court and watched his party disappear ever further into the distance, Arthur slipped his hand down her arm to wrap it around hers in comfort. She squeezed back, holding on tightly.

It is, so far, the one and only indication he’s had that she might be upset.

Be that as it may, and though he may not necessarily have an eye for these things, Arthur cannot imagine that she is not sad to see her brother go. As her husband, who is also meant to be hopelessly in love with her, it is his job to cheer her up. It is what _friends_ do in any case.

He plucks a flower from one of the vases in the room then tiptoes back to the bed and lays it on her pillow, so that it will be the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes.

He has taken to doing this, always making sure that he is in George’s, sometimes Eira’s, line of sight, after he heard Sir Ranulf say that it is what he did to cheer up his wife, after their firstborn turned out to be a boy instead of a girl. _(“He’ll probably end up being a knight just like you,”_ Lady Mary had allegedly cried. _“Now you’ll both go off in the name of the king and get yourselves killed!”)_

When Guinevere finally steps out of bed and finds him at the table, she twirls the flower in her hand, gives him a smile and, still under the watchful eyes of the servants, bends to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

If the spot where her lips touched his skin is still warm for an hour after, then Arthur does not dwell on it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin walks through the hallway past the royal chambers, whistling to himself, when a hand shoots through the doors and pulls him inside.

A graceless scream dies in his throat when he comes face to face with the king. His heart does continue pound like it did that time he got chased around by an enchanted boar, though.

“Oh, don’t look so frightened,” Arthur says as he shuts then bolts the doors. “I won’t let Morgana do anything to you.”

The mention of her name is what finally draws Merlin’s attention to the fact that they are not alone. The queen sits at the head of the long dining table while Morgana has a seat to her left, directly in Merlin’s line of sight.

“Merlin,” she says, sizing him up. “Have your ears got bigger?”

Merlin retorts, “Have your warts?”

“You know,” Arthur leans over to speak in his ear, “there is only so much I can do if you keep this up.”

Merlin holds his tongue against further comment and, prompt ignoring Morgana’s glare, turns to the Guinevere, bowing his head. “My lady.”

She smiles. “Merlin.”

He has known her for just under two weeks, and already, he likes her better than any other lady he has ever met, save for maybe his mother. She just has that air about her. Everyone succumbs to it.

He assumed Arthur had, too. Now he wonders. On the day she was crowned, as she handed out coin to the unfortunate – out of the goodness of her heart or in a clever bid to earn their affections, he still cannot say – Merlin took part in everyone’s good mood and walked up to the king with a grin on his face.

_“So far, I think this marriage is working out quite well, don’t you?”_ he commented.

_“That depends, Merlin.”_ Arthur’s gaze lingered on Guinevere for a moment before he turned it on him.   _“Do you think that a common pretense is a good thing?”_

_“I – I don’t understand.”_

_“This marriage,”_ Arthur said, _“is nothing more than a show for the people of Camelot. So that everyone may believe that we are in love, which somehow makes us stronger. None of it is real.”_

When Merlin did not know what to say to that, Arthur offered him a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

_“Oh, cheer up, Merlin,”_ he told him. _“After all, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”_

It is, but when he said it like that, it took all the satisfaction out of it.

Not to mention it reminded Merlin that he put off, and put off, and put off some more, telling Arthur about this while he wrote his correspondence to Guinevere, then never actually got around to doing it. It feels infinitely worse that Arthur put it together on his own. Like he’s betrayed him somehow. The thought gets harder to bear each day.

Nonetheless, Arthur and Guinevere have appeared no less _friendly_ these past few days, and it is no different now, so perhaps at least that part is true.

“So, why are we here?” Merlin asks as Arthur steers him to the chair opposite Morgana’s.

“Well,” he says as Merlin sits, “if you recall, there is still that small matter of Camelot’s woods being overrun with bandits.”

“Oh. _That._ ”

“Yes, Merlin. _That._ ” Arthur circles to the other end of the table, resting his elbows on the back of his chair. “Something must be done.”

That is – quite the initiative indeed. Merlin cannot recall him ever doing this before. Maybe the queen has something to do with it.

He is confident and self-assured as he says it, too, and Merlin idly notes what a vast change that is from his first day in Camelot. Or even one memorable part of the meeting he held two days ago. Maybe the queen has something to do with that, too.

Morgana brings Merlin out of his musings. “Isn’t this something that also concerns the rest of your council?” she asks.

“Yet,” Arthur counters, “I can’t be sure that one of my councilmen isn’t the one in league with these bandits. You – ” he nods to the three of them – “are the only ones I can truly trust.”

That ever-familiar knot of guilt in Merlin’s stomach returns. He wonders if Morgana ever feels like this. Or is she always just convinced that they have only done what was right?

He clears his throat. “Do you suspect anyone?”

It turns out that Arthur suspects no one and absolutely everyone.

They do, however, agree that it must someone who is privy to confidential information on the knights’ patrols. Likely a lord of the court – likelier still, a member of the council.

“Whoever they are,” Morgana says, “they have eluded us for a long time. We have tried, Arthur. Merlin and I have used every magic we are capable of to try and find this traitor, and the bandits. It was of no use.”

“Then perhaps,” Guinevere speaks up, “we should not look to find them through sorcery, but instead through careful thought and strategy.”

When they all look to her with varying degrees of befuddlement, she adds, “I’m suggesting we should find a way to trick them into revealing _themselves_.”

“Yes!” Arthur lets out, enthusiastically. “A subterfuge! Excellent!” Moments pass in silence before he asks, “And how do we do that?”

The queen lays out a plan, which Merlin admits is elegant in nature, to spread word that the bandits have been found and that knights will ride out at first light. Then, it will only be a matter of singling out the lord – “or lady,” she adds – who frantically races to inform their conspirators of this fact.

The more she talks, the more the look in Arthur’s eyes softens, like he is just so taken by her cleverness. If he is faking it all, then he is doing an absolutely outstanding job.

“Indeed,” Morgana is saying, “they must have a way of communicating with the bandits. Often, too.”

“But they are surely careful not to get caught,” Guinevere adds on. “Something unexpected like this might cause them to make a mistake.”

“While that is a brilliant plan,” Merlin says, “how exactly are we to _catch_ them making this mistake?”

A slow smile spreads across Guinevere’s face as she turns to him.

Morgana is the one who can actually tell the future – or so she says – but as Guinevere opens her mouth to speak, Merlin swears he knows exactly all the ways in which he is not going to like what comes out of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“How do you think Merlin and Morgana are faring?” Guinevere whispers.

“If they haven’t killed each other already,” Arthur’s voice is hushed, too, “I imagine they are fine.”

He glances out into the hallway, then quickly ducks back out of sight. A moment later, guards pass by the alcove where they hide.

They are sneaking through the palace under the cover of the night – which Guinevere has suggested their traitor will also use to carry out his plans.

While Merlin and Morgana have the privilege of staking out the aviary, if by chance their traitor favors using ravens to send his messages, Arthur has the great pleasure of stalking the dark halls of the palace with Guinevere, should someone try and sneak out towards the gates or the stables.

So far, they have avoided five maids scurrying home after nightfall, two groups of guards, and Sir Kay sleepwalking around in his nightshirt, as he does, talking to his favorite imaginary dragon about what the current alignment of the starts foretells for the future of Camelot. (Apparently, it is not all that great.)

All this sneaking around is somewhere halfway up the list of the strangest things Arthur has ever done – but he is finally doing _something_ , taking care of Camelot, and that makes his heart beat stronger, makes him alert like he hasn’t been in a long time.

“Do you see anything?” Guinevere’s breath brushes his ear in the darkness.

Arthur chances another look around the corner. “It’s clear.”

She nudges him to get him to move so he does, keeping to the wall as he leads them through a particularly secluded part of the castle. It has even less light than the rest of it and is far more quiet – which is perhaps why he is so acutely aware of every breath Guinevere draws.

It takes him a moment, but eventually, he realizes each one seems to come closer to the last than the one before.

“Are you frightened?” he asks.

Her expression is difficult to truly discern in the shadows, but there is no mistaking the way her chin ticks up. “Not in the slightest.”

It makes Arthur smile. “Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I thought we were supposed to be honest with each other?”

Again, it is difficult to tell, but he may have made her smile, too. “Very well,” she says. “It’s just that – well, I am the one who suggested this whole charade.”

“Right…”

“If I am wrong,” she sighs softly, “then not only does it make me look like a fool, but I have also made a lord, a lady and a king sneak around like thieves in the night for nothing.”

The end of it is strung together so fast that Arthur only barely manages to catch the words. Then it dawns on him.

She’s _nervous_.

He’s never seen her quite this way before.

“I’m sure that won’t be true,” he reassures. “Besides, I’ve not yet seen you make a mistake.”

“You haven’t known me that long.”

“Indeed.” Arthur nods. “See, there you go, being right again.”

There is no mistaking her smile this time. “Thank you.”

The soft way in which she says it preoccupies Arthur’s mind for longer than it arguably should, which is why it also takes him longer to realize there are footsteps approaching behind them.

Short on time, he does the first thing he can think of, and takes Guinevere’s hand to pull her around the nearest corner with him. It is only when her chest strains against his under a startled gasp that he realizes that he has her pinned against the wall.

“Um,” he mutters, “I – I heard something.”

Guinevere stares up at him wide-eyed, her mouth parted open as she takes deep breaths. They are so close that he feels each one as if it were his own, pressing her body into his. Arthur swallows.

He eases back, clearing his throat as he turns his eyes back to the hallway they came from. He does so just in time to see Ygraine pass through, her shoes beating a quick pattern against the ground as she strides with purpose.

Arthur freezes, then narrows his eyes.

Guinevere seems to understand exactly what he is going through his head. “You don’t really think – ”

“Come on.” Arthur wraps his hand around hers again, taking off after Ygraine.

They follow her, tiptoeing down one hallway then the next, as they keep to the walls to remain unnoticed. Arthur expects her to lead them outside towards the castle grounds, but she climbs a staircase instead. He then expects her to keep climbing towards the east tower where Merlin and Morgana wait, but she steps off on the next floor and heads westward.

Finally, she comes to a stop in front of a nondescript chamber door and raises her hand to knock twice.

Arthur watches from further down the hall, brow furrowed in confusion. Then, he realizes something. “Wait,” he mumbles to Guinevere, “isn’t that – ”

Almost as an answer his question, the door opens to reveal Nimueh. She smiles and steps aside to let Ygraine in, then quietly shuts the door behind her.

As is always the case with Ygraine, Nimueh, and Ygraine and Nimueh, Arthur has no earthly idea what’s happening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Standing at the highest point of the castle’s east tower, Merlin leans against the wall of the aviary, ankle-deep in straw and bird droppings, watching as Morgana idly strokes a raven’s head with far more affection than she has ever shown most human beings.

He was right. He does not like this.

“We’ve been waiting an hour,” he grouses.

“These things require patience,” Morgana says.

She would say that. _She_ is having her fun, whilst she enjoys his suffering and plays with her little bird pet.

“The queen’s plan _is_ sound,” Merlin reluctantly admits at length.

“She has a mind for these things,” Morgana muses. “I like her.”

“Well, you should,” Merlin says. “After all, you’re the one who chose her.”

The raven in Morgana’s hand caws, a shrill and ominous sound in the darkness of the night. Morgana, for her part, only offers him a smirk, as if to say, _“You agreed.”_

Merlin looks away.

“Oh, what is it now, Merlin?” she asks. “We made the right choice.”

“The law might say otherwise,” he mumbles.

“My conscience is clear,” Morgana says. “Why isn’t yours?”

It is a question he has asked himself many times. Uther was tyrant. He held Camelot back from becoming the kingdom it was meant to be. He was unloved. His own child conspired to kill him.

Merlin should not feel guilty that he helped. That he had a hand in giving Camelot a new king, one the ancient prophets themselves said it deserved. He didn’t feel badly about it before, so why does guilt fester in his gut now?

Even as he thinks it, he knows the answer.

“Arthur,” he says simply.

Morgana cocks her head expectantly, waiting for the rest of it.

“He trusts us,” Merlin sighs. “He thinks we’re his friends. But the truth is, we lied to him. We even chose his _wife_.”

They’ve really decided his whole _life_ for him, and still, they’re lying to him.

“He doesn’t deserve that.” Merlin shakes his head. “He’s a good man.”

“Better than Uther ever was.” Morgana purses her lips. “So, why are you so sure he would not have done as we have, had he known our father?”

“Good men rarely condone murder, whatever the circumstances,” Merlin says.

“Good men do not,” Morgana agrees, raising an eyebrow. “Which is why I asked you.”

Merlin lets out a wry chuckle. She’s clever.

“All I’m saying is,” he keeps his voice low, “deciding Arthur’s fate was easier before I knew him.”

“Perhaps,” Morgana allows, and it is the only indication he ever receives that she wonders about it, too, “but what is done is done. We made our choice. We made him king. The best you can do, Merlin, is to find a way to live with it.”

He has no better proposition nor a solid argument to the contrary, so he says nothing at all, and Morgana has no more words to offer either.

The silence quickly becomes unbearable.

“So – ” Merlin blows out a loud breath – “this is taking a long time, isn’t it?”

Morgana only rolls her eyes.

She has barely done so before heavy footsteps thud up the stairs and the door of the aviary bursts open, revealing a red-faced and panting Lord Edwin, clutching a piece of parchment in his fist.

There is a long, pregnant pause where they all stand frozen, staring at each other – including Morgana’s raven, its black eyes wide and unmoving.

Then, Merlin clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“I always knew there was something wrong about you,” he says before he strikes out with one hand, throwing Edwin back against the door with his magic. He crumbles to the ground, unconscious.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Lord Edwin has been put in the dungeons,” Sir Gwaine informs. “The court has been informed that he will stand trial in the morning, my lord.”

Arthur nods, striving to appear solemn and kingly as he does. “Thank you, Gwaine.”

Gwaine bows his head and exits the royal chambers, shutting the door behind him. The moment he does, Arthur lets out a breath and turns to Guinevere, standing just behind him. There is a smile on her face.

“It seems you were indeed not a fool after all,” Arthur says.  

She looks pleased by the fact, as she well should. It is only thanks to her that Edwin has been exposed.

“I wanted to say thank you.” Arthur shifts to face her fully. “Your diligence helped to catch a traitor.”

Guinevere dismisses it with a little shake of her head. “I only did what was right.”

“You did a great deal more than that.” Arthur chuckles. Softly, he adds, “Thanks to you, I have finally done something worthwhile as king.”

Whether he is _a_ worthwhile king remains a different question altogether. After all, a trusted, longstanding member of his council – someone he listened to, even – has been conspiring against him this whole time. And Arthur never saw it.

No better than he sees Guinevere come closer, too caught up in his own thoughts. He blinks, and her hand is on his arm, as if in comfort.

“There is still plenty of time,” she tells him, “to show everyone in Camelot the kind of king you will be. No deed, no matter how small, done in service of your kingdom is without value. Everyone must start somewhere.”

Without really thinking, Arthur raises his own hand to cover hers, holding it against him. There is a moment where their eyes meet, and Arthur’s heart beats faster than it has all night.

Even as they stand perfectly still, the memory of her body pressed tightly against his returns, and Arthur’s gaze falls to her mouth.

Which is exactly when she draws away, hands falling back to her sides as she takes a couple of steps back.  

Arthur scrambles for something to say, and in the end, the best he has is just a muttered, “thanks,” which sounds strained even to his own ears.

If Guinevere hears it, she makes no comment. “In any case,” she says instead, “this has been a good day for Camelot. You have much to be happy about.”

He supposes that is one way to look at it. Sure is better than feeling miserable for having been betrayed. Though he never particularly cared for Edwin one way or another, now that the threat that’s been preoccupying him for weeks finally has a face, it is all that harder to accept.

Shaking the thought away, and in an attempt to dispel any awkwardness that might still linger between them, Arthur offers her a smile.

“As always, Guinevere,” he says, “you’re right.”

When the compliment makes Guinevere break into a bright smile of her own, Arthur convinces himself that the warm feeling it brings to his chest is only there because he is glad to have said something nice to a _friend._

And he can now see said friend turn from happy to pensive, biting her lip in thought.

“Was there anything else?” he asks. She hesitates, so he adds, “If there’s something on your mind, I’d like to hear it.”

“It’s just…” She sighs softly. “Before, when we saw your mother…you seemed quite quick to suspect her.”

Arthur stills, then shrugs it off as it were of no consequence. “She was acting suspiciously.”

“Perhaps,” Guinevere allows, “but isn’t she, of all people, worthy of your trust?”

“Why should I trust her?” Arthur lets out on an impulse. “I don’t know her.”

He regrets speaking it aloud the moment it’s out of his mouth for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that something like pity fills Guinevere’s eyes.

“You’ve known her longer than you have me,” she says.

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because – ” Arthur grapples for a sound argument, “you – you’re honest. She – ” He looks around helplessly, as if the walls will impart him with the answers – or save him from having to give them altogether – then just sighs.

“She gave me up,” he says simply, “the moment I was born, and I – I’m sure it’s true that she had no choice, but I never knew her.”

She is not unkind, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort. But she is not transparent either, nor particularly forthcoming – and she is certainly not what she acts like around him. He already had a mother, and it wasn’t her.

“And now, she…she treats me like I’ve always been her son, like – ” He shakes his head. “How _can_ I trust her, when…when she’s never really explained herself to me? When she _clearly_ keeps secrets – can you really say otherwise after what we saw tonight?”

By the looks of her, Guinevere has some thoughts as to the nature of these secrets, but she doesn’t share them. Instead, she says, “Perhaps that is true. But, from what I’ve seen…I believe she genuinely cares for you.” She shrugs. “It might be worthwhile to give her a chance.”

Arthur is not willing to agree to that just yet, chewing on his tongue in silence, but Guinevere does not press the matter either.

“It’s late,” she says at length, “we should get some rest. You have a trying day ahead.”

It is only when she speaks the words that Arthur remembers.

Edwin will stand trial in the morning. Before the court. And the _king_. Who happens to be _him_.

He has no idea how to do this.

“Um…”

Halfway to the changing screen, Guinevere turns back to him, brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

“I, uh – ” Arthur bites his lip. “I am the one who’s supposed to make Edwin stand trial. Interrogate him and…such.”

“Yes.”

Arthur nods, awkwardly shuffles his feet, then says, “I’ve never actually done it before.”

Guinevere’s frown clears, her mouth lifting into a soft smile. “I will teach you.”


	8. She Is The King

The first time Arthur leaves Guinevere alone in Camelot, they have been married for six weeks. She’s counted.

Lord Edwin’s trial goes well. Arthur is firm but concise in his questions, just like she advises him to be. He lets the pressure of the watchful eyes of the court weigh on Edwin until he caves and starts talking, just like she tells him he should.

He is not perfect in interrogating the man, of course, but he learns fast, and he shows promise. Like he shows promise in being king.

But Edwin still knows the ways of the court better, which is why he never offers the full extent of his knowledge on the bandits and their whereabouts. It is the only thing that keeps him alive, even if that life is merely a sad existence in a dark, damp cell.

After weeks of interrogation and strategy, the council decides they have enough to seek the bandits out. Half of the information they hold is sound and half of it is a guess, but nonetheless, Arthur decrees that knights should ride at first light. They will find the bandits, he says, and put an end to them once and for all.

Guinevere agrees. Less so when Arthur further proclaims that _he_ shall be leading the knights on this mission.

But he cannot be persuaded otherwise – stubbornness, she has learned, is one of his more prominent traits – and so, Guinevere stands on the steps of the palace in the morning, watching him disappear into the distance, followed by a dozen of his men – and Merlin.

“I’m sure he will be fine.” Leon comes to stand next to her, offering reassurances.

“I am, too,” Guinevere says. “He has many fine knights with him.”

“He is one himself,” Leon tells her. “I have seen him upon the training grounds many times. His skill with the sword is impressive.”

She does not doubt Leon’s judgement. But, she also knows that knights have a tendency to talk up their king, and Leon, who has since his arrival traded his blue cloak for the red one of Camelot, is one of them now.

Guinevere lets out a quiet sigh, then turns and picks up her skirts to climb back the steps of the palace.

In the absence of the king, after all, the kingdom rests on the queen’s shoulders. In this case, _her_ shoulders.

 “Come,” she calls to Leon with a smile. “We have a long day ahead.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Deep within Camelot’s dungeons, Edwin stares out the one, small widow that graces his cell, eyes trained on the single glimpse of the courtyard the view allows.

A dozen pairs of horses’ hooves beat upon the stones and disappear into the distance. If knights are leaving Camelot, then the king is looking for the bandits. If he finds them, then Edwin’s own end is nigh.

He turns away from the window, settling onto the one stone bench he has for such purposes, and closes his eyes. His face aches again, the old pain of his burns flaring up again.

He has stalled for weeks, relentlessly thinking on ways that he might escape his fate. He is starting to believe that he cannot.

The thought preoccupies him, so much so that it takes him a while to realize that there is some commotion outside his cell. Three thuds, one after the other, as if bodies were hitting the ground.

When Edwin opens his eyes, he has company.

“Ruadan.” He frowns, slowly rising to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Ruadan gives him a wry look. “What do you think? I am going to help you escape.”

Edwin approaches him carefully, meeting his eyes through the iron bars. Even as he longs for the very thing Ruadan is offering, they have never been friends. “And why would you help me?”

“The enemy of my enemy,” Ruadan says, “can only be my friend.”

_Enemy?_ That is a strong word. It makes Edwin curious. “I know why I betrayed him – ” because he does not care for anyone here, much less the new king, and he enjoys wealth and riches – “but why would you?”

“His father,” Ruadan’s voice drips with contempt, “warred with my people, relentlessly, until we were forced to flee the land that is rightfully ours. Did you really expect my allegiance to him to be true? Or to his son?”

In hindsight, Edwin thinks, he makes a good point.

If _he_ belonged to an ancient people like the Druids, and was forced to leave his home for a barren northern wasteland such as Ismere, only to have his persecutor offer him peace, as if it were a reward, then a place in the council, while never letting him forget that he was inferior in his eyes – well, he might harbor some hatred, too.

Nonetheless, he cannot pretend that he expected this.

“I have to say, I am surprised,” he admits. “Your daughter speaks highly of the king and queen. Morgana, too. She thinks they are good people.”

“They are Pendragons,” Ruadan retorts without pity. “They are good for one thing only.”

“Betrayal?” Edwin ventures.

“Death.”

Again, Edwin does not expect it. He can only imagine what sort of fate might have befallen the Pendragons, had the king allied himself with Ruadan’s cousin Mordred instead of Elyan Leodogran.

Either way, it does not concern him anymore, so he does not care much either.

“The guards won’t stay unconscious for long,” Ruadan is saying. “You must leave now, while they are distracted with the knights’ departure.”

Edwin has some misgivings about that plan. “Even so, I doubt I will have reached even the edge of the woods before they come after me.”

“Do not worry,” Ruadan dismisses. “You will be the last thing on their minds. I will leave them with a much greater distraction yet.”

Edwin does not care to learn what that is, as Ruadan opens his cell with magic and breaks him free.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The council gathers at the Round Table, to discuss matters of the kingdom, as is a weekly habit.

Guinevere nods to the assembled lords, knights, and Morgana, as she passes them on the way to her seat.

It is only when Leon pulls out Arthur’s chair – her father’s chair – for her to sit, that her mind begins to truly catch up to the fact that, for all intents and purposes, from this moment, until the moment Arthur returns, _she_ is the king.

The thought sends a tremor through her fingers. Guinevere hides it by twisting her hands in her lap, under the table, and plasters a smile for all to see.

“What have you for me?” she prompts.

Geoffrey of Monmouth is the first to stand from the table, his many scrolls laid out neatly before him. On his right, Ruadan wipes sweat from his forehead, as if he’s run across the entire castle to get to this meeting.

As Geoffrey lays out his latest concerns – something about knighting ceremonies and how some of their aspects show disregard for the old traditions – that seem to lull the rest of the attendees into a pleasant state of drowsiness, Guinevere is struck, as often is the case, by how impossibly inane it all is.

Arthur would think the same. He’d nudge her leg under the table and catch her eye when no one was watching, then give her a look that said, _‘End me now.’_

Guinevere almost turns her head, as if she will find him doing the same today, before she remembers that he is, in fact, not there.

“These are valid concerns,” she speaks when Geoffrey is, at long last, through. “It is important that we uphold tradition. However – ”

She never finishes.

The warning bells start tolling, ending everyone’s slumber. The knights stiffen, the lords share hasty whispers of concern, and Guinevere’s immediate, unreasonable thought, is that something’s happened to Arthur.

It is nothing of the sort. The doors open to reveal a guard, panting, red-faced and with a bleeding gash across his forehead.

“Your Highness,” he says, “Lord Edwin has escaped.”

The first person Guinevere looks to is Morgana, whose eyes narrow at hearing the news. If that is because she believes it is highly unlikely Edwin could escape without help, then Guinevere agrees. She is just about to issue an order of pursuit to Sir Leon, when she is, once more, interrupted – not by bells, or commotion, but by _silence_.

It descends upon the room, like a stifling weight pressing down on her ears. The warning bells have stopped. All Guinevere hears is the sound of her own heart beating.

Then it starts.

Clanking, soft at first, like creaking armor, then thudding, like heavy boots upon the hard stones. There is a sound like steel cutting through air, and then the guard by the doors falls, a sword sticking from his gut.

Everything becomes a blur after that.

The lords scatter amidst panicked screams. The knights rise, drawing their swords, and Leon takes Guinevere’s hand and pulls her behind his back to shield her. She catches a flash of Morgana, hand raised in the air, ready to strike.

It is hard to see in the scuffle, with people running and hiding, Morgana speaking enchantments, and knights descending upon the intruder as one. And as one, they are all fended off, either shoved to the ground or struck down.

If this doesn’t end, Guinevere thinks, they will all die.

“Enough!” she yells.

As suddenly as it began, it stops. The lords stop running, Morgana stops chanting, and the knights, those still standing, fall back.

When they do, they reveal a tall figure in the middle of the room. It lowers its own sword, long and broad, pointing it to the ground.

_It_ looks like a knight, too, clad in heavy, black armor that seems worn and weathered. A helmet hides its face completely. The holes over his eyes show only blackness behind them.

With her heart beating out of her chest, Guinevere steps out from behind Sir Leon. “Who are you?” she demands. “What do you want?”

“Your kingdom’s trial has begun,” the intruder speaks, in a deep, roughened voice that sounds like death itself. “Face me, or Camelot will fall.”

“What quarrel do you have with us?”

He does not answer her question. “Face me,” he repeats, “or everyone here shall die.”

As quickly as he came, he leaves, turning on his heel to walk out the doors. When Leon looks like he might take off after him, Guinevere puts a hand on his arm and shakes her head.

In the silence left behind, Morgana speaks first. “Who on Earth is that?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“The Black Knight.”

Guinevere stares at Nimueh, utterly lost. “And who is that?”

The Round Table has convened once more, if only with a heavier guard. The council is still a bit rumpled – save for Ruadan, who seems to have been mostly spared – and the knights sit solemn and grave. Three have lost their lives already, and a dozen more are injured.

All eyes are on Nimueh, considering she is the likeliest, if not the only, person in Camelot to have any answers.

“He is as ancient as this table,” she explains. “Like it, he comes from the time of the Old Kings. I have only ever heard stories. But I am certain it is him.”

Guinevere does not ask how. She has never known Nimueh to be wrong about these things.

“What does he want?” Morgana asks.

“He was brought into the world by Bruta.”

“The first king of Camelot?” Sir Bors sounds perplexed.

“Indeed.” Nimueh nods. “Bruta, like the other Old Kings, valued peace and unity. But, he had three children, and _they_ did not follow his ways. They fought, they warred amongst themselves, each believing that he or she is the true ruler of Camelot. So, to end it all, Bruta put them before a challenge.”

“The Black Knight,” Guinevere realizes.

“Bruta created him,” Nimueh says, “a creature more powerful than any of his children. He or she who faced the Black Knight and won, he said, would be his true descendant.”

“So, what happened then?” Leon asks.

“No one really knows.” Nimueh shrugs. “Who fought the knight, or who may have won, is beyond anyone’s memory. Like I said, it is a tale as ancient as this land.”

If it is a tale so ancient, Guinevere wonders, then who among them, save Nimueh, could have hoped to know about it? To summon this knight again?

However it is, they may be sitting with them at this very moment. They may very well be the same person who helped Edwin escape, too, what with the timing of this attack being so suspect.

Guinevere idly notes that Arthur will be so disappointed that there is another traitor in Camelot.

“Well, then,” Leon speaks, “it is clear what we must do. This Black Knight has issued a challenge to the queen. As her champion, I am the one who must face him.”

_No,_ Guinevere thinks desperately, her heart in her throat. If he does, he will die.

“Your loyalty, as always, is admirable,” Nimueh says, “but that is not what will defeat this knight.”

Trying to hide her relief, Guinevere asks, “Then what do you suggest?”

“The end of the story may have gotten lost over time, but what Bruta told his children is known. To defeat their foe, they needed three things.”

Guinevere, though young, has been around long enough to know that these three things Bruta has said will be as vague and cryptic as the world’s most impenetrable riddle.

Nimueh confirms it when she says, “Courage, strength…and magic.”

The others fall silent, brows furrowed like those of men trying to work out a particularly obscure puzzle.

“If that is so,” Lord Adnain appears to have solved it first, “then we must choose a knight who possesses all those things. He will face the Black Knight.”

Murmurs of agreement go around, the lords of the council seemingly quite satisfied with this idea. The knights exchange glances.

Sir Ranulf, famed for having once engaged thirty mercenaries by himself, lifted a horse with his bare hands and started fires with his mind as a boy, rises from the table first.

“I am all those things, my lady,” he tells Guinevere. “It would be my honor to fight for you.”

“And if he should fail – ” Sir Kay stands, too – “I am willing to take his place.”

Sirs Galahad and Lowrie follow, saying, “And I.”

All eyes are on Guinevere now.

The knights’, steadfast if resigned, then the councilmen’s, practically exerting physical pressure on her shoulders, to ger her to accept this, the fastest solution, even if it means more men’s deaths.

She is the king. They wait for her to say, ‘yes.’

Guinevere takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and says, “No.”

It unsettles them. Protests fall from their lips, mixing together in indiscernible gibberish. They are afraid, she knows that. But they are also wrong. No puzzle from the old days has ever had such an easy answer.

“I understand that you are frightened,” she speaks, and they, eventually, quiet down, “but I do not think that this is the answer to saving Camelot. Until I _have_ found one, I am not willing to sacrifice any more lives.”

“Only ours, then,” Ruadan says. “By doing nothing, you put the whole of Camelot in peril.”

Guinevere’s eyes cut over to him. She has never heard him speak so boldly before.

“Ruadan is right,” Adnain joins in. “We must act now. Arthur would.”

Perhaps he would. But Arthur might also say that she is always right. “I do not think – ”

“Would you still be so reticent,” Ruadan is unrelenting, “if it were _your_ kingdom in danger?”

A retort dies on Guinevere’s tongue. When she looks over the rest of them, even the knights, she sees the same kind of mistrust reflected on their faces.

They like her, she knows that, they respect where she comes from. But times of crises such as these have a way of unveiling the real truth.

Leon ends the standstill, his voice cold. “Are you questioning the queen’s loyalty to Camelot?”

“As I would question yours,” Ruadan replies.

Chairs scrape the floor and swords are drawn, as Leon points his blade at Ruadan, and says, “Then perhaps, it is I who should challenge you.”

“Stop this,” Guinevere commands.

Leon does on her word, lowering his blade. Ruadan is slower to comply, but he, too, holds his tongue and settles back down. Nonetheless, it is clear that his reservations remain. Just as it is clear that he is not the only one who harbors them.

She is the king, but this is not her kingdom. They are not her men. Her heart is still, might forever be, in Cameliard, and perhaps, it is time she stopped pretending otherwise.

“You are all thinking with your swords,” Morgana is saying. “At least the queen is using her _head._ ”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Sir Lowrie speaks, and, maybe, draws on that courage he plans to confront the Black Knight with to unwaveringly look at Guinevere as he does, “but I would rather die for Camelot, than stand by and do nothing as it falls.”

The part he doesn’t say aloud, though his meaning comes through perfectly, is, _‘Could you say the same?’_

“We have to try,” Kay agrees.

Part of Guinevere wants to yield. To do as they want, whatever the consequences might be.

But Gods, she _knows_ better.

“I cannot stop you,” she says, resigned, “if you believe this is what you must do. You are free men. But, please,” she beseeches, “you must believe that I, too, understand duty. I do think with Camelot’s best interests at heart. At least _consider_ the possibility that you might be wrong about this”

It falls on deaf ears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Guinevere stands at the window of the royal chambers. Below, the Black Knight looms in the middle of the courtyard, now utterly motionless once more. Though the late afternoon sun beats down upon him, no light ever reflects off his armor. It is unnerving.

Morgana holds her hand while she watches, helpless, as he cuts down the knights that try to defeat him. They throw down their gauntlets, they fight, they try swords, and axes, and magic. None of it so much as leaves a scratch on his armor.

By the time the sun begins to set, the count is five more dead, including Sir Lowrie.

They take his body away, too, and still, Guinevere remains practically sequestered in her chambers, with a guard outside the door for protection. They will protect her, but they won’t listen to her.

“How long before they admit they were wrong, do you think?” Elaine asks.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Nimueh answers dryly.

Touching a hand to Guinevere’s shoulder in comfort, Morgana says, “Do not blame yourself. You warned them. They made their choice.”

“I know. But men have died.” Guinevere sighs. “I must do _something._ ”

“I know this is difficult,” Leon’s voice reaches her, from where he stands by the doors, “but it is best that you stay here. Your safety is paramount. You cannot go near him, my lady.”

Guinevere turns around to face him. “I understand,” she says softly. “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

It makes her smile. “Make sure there is a guard outside every home in the lower town. It is bound to be a difficult night. I want the people to feel as safe as possible.”

“Of course.” Leon takes the order readily, turning on his heel to see it done.

“Leon, wait – ”

He pauses. “My lady?”

“Promise me – ” Guinevere holds his gaze – “that you will not try to face him, either.”

“I – ”

“Give me your word.”

With a contained sigh, he relents, and solemnly promises, “You have my word.”

Pleased to at least have that surety, Guinevere offers him one last smile before he leaves. No sooner has the door closed behind him, that she turns back to Morgana and says, “You’ve lived in this palace your whole life. So, tell me – how do I get out of here without anyone noticing?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I take it you have a plan?” Nimueh prompts.

“Maybe,” Guinevere allows.

“Well, magic is clearly useless against him,” Morgana says, sounding distracted as she peers through the window, almost like she is studying it for weaknesses.

“That,” Nimueh counters, “is because _it_ alone is not enough to defeat him.”

“Perhaps it is not so simple,” Elaine suggests. “Am I right in believing that you think the same, my lady?”

Guinevere smiles. Elaine knows her well. “If the legend is true, then Bruta’s challenge required _three_ things of his _three_ children. I have heard enough of your stories – ” she glances at Nimueh – “to know that _can’t_ be a coincidence.”

“I would be surprised if it were,” Nimueh confirms. “So, your plan, then?”

“Right.” Guinevere straightens. Here goes nothing. Or her head. “I do not know how to defeat him. Perhaps no one does. So, for now, maybe the best we can do is just to…trap him.”

“That,” Morgana muses, “might just work.”

“Can you think of any place that would hold him?”

“A place? No. But – ” Morgana clicks her tongue – “immortal creatures, creatures of magic such as he is, are usually, when they cannot be destroyed, only stopped if they are frozen. Are they not?” Over her shoulder, she raises an eyebrow at Nimueh.

“They are.”

“There’s a lake just outside the city,” Guinevere proposes. A fact she was made aware of when Arthur took her for some sightseeing and a poorly-located picnic, and frogs kept leaping at their food.

Morgana nods. “I could use my magic to turn it into ice.”

“Good.” Guinevere nods in kind. “And, as it is me he has challenged…I should be the one to lure him there.”

Elaine’s reaction is immediate. “My lady, I must object – ”

“I know,” she says, “but I have to do this.”

“Then I shall come with you – ”

“No. No, you must stay here. To look after everyone. To look after Caelia. She must be so frightened.”

“Caelia’s frightened of everything.”

“Exactly. Which is why she needs a _friend_. _”_

“But – ”

“And,” Guinevere insists, “I will need you to distract the guards so they don’t notice I am gone. As do you,” she tells Nimueh, who, at least, voices no protest.

“But, my lady,” Elaine sounds torn, “surely, you cannot mean to face him, just the two of you?”

“They won’t.” A new voice reaches them.

When Guinevere turns around, the Lady Ygraine is standing at the threshold of the chamber’s side door, dressed in travelling trousers and a tunic. A small dagger hangs at her hip. “I will come with you.”

Guinevere might have expected many things, but not this. While she struggles to come up with even a single answer, Nimueh moves faster than Guinevere has ever seen her, grasping Ygraine’s hand.

“You don’t have to do this.” Her voice is filled with great concern, such as she has never shown at the thought of Guinevere putting herself in similar danger. The latter chooses not to be slighted by this.

Ygraine gently covers the hand that holds hers. “I want to. Surely, you could use some help to carry out this plan?”

“We could,” Morgana agrees.

It earns her a rather disdainful look from Nimueh, who says, “Then I should come with you as well, I – ”

“You’ve already agreed to stay,” Ygraine counters, with the sort of gentleness that Guinevere has only ever heard her use with her son, “as you should. The queen is right.”

“But – ”

“Please,” is Ygraine’s final word on the matter, and slowly, Nimueh gives in, letting her hand fall away.

If Guinevere has ever had doubts before, about the true nature of their relationship, they are gone now. She wonders how long it will take for Arthur to catch on, too.

As she takes in Ygraine’s attire one more time, she frowns. “You seem…well-prepared.”

“After the council refused to listen to you, I thought you might resort to something like this.” Ygraine shrugs. “It is the sort of thing your father would do.”

That – is in complete contradiction of every memory Guinevere holds of her father.

As if sensing this, Ygraine smiles and pats her shoulder. “You did not know him when he was young.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The night air is cold and biting when Guinevere comes to face the Black Knight. Her breath turns white each time she exhales. She is sure that it is the creature’s presence that brings such a chill to a warm spring night.

The courtyard is deserted now. The knights have expended their efforts for the day, retiring within the palace so they may rest for the next. The two men who still stood guard were, quite unceremoniously, knocked out with a single flick of Morgana’s wrist.

The Black Knight’s helmet makes an awful, creaking sound as turns around, as if drawn by the sounds of Guinevere’s steps. If he had eyes, she imagines they would be staring right at her.

“You wished for me to face you,” she says. “I am here. But,” she adds, as he begins to move, “you _will_ have to catch me first.”

With that, she takes off in a run.

She heads for the stables, her lungs burning with the strain of going faster, and faster, the Black Knight’s heavy footsteps ringing in her ears as he pursues.

Horses neigh when she bursts in, grabbing the reins of her favorite white mare, shushing it and patting its muzzle. Ever so grateful that she’s changed into more sensible clothes, too, she mounts and kicks its shins.

As she urges it forward through the city, the wind hitting her face and making her eyes water, she looks over her shoulder. The Black Knight is right behind her, atop a black stallion.

They are making an incredible ruckus, and it will not be long before the knights are roused, too. She doesn’t have much time.

She leads them outside the city walls, towards the woods. As she rides, with her heart beating like it will give out, and death ever so closer on her heels, the one thought that goes through her mind, again and again, is that she really wishes Arthur were here.

Just as she begins to wonder how long she can keep this up for, the trees begin to thin out. Ahead, the lake’s still surface shines in the moonlight.

“Now!” Guinevere yells.

Morgana’s eyes glow in the dark, from where she hides amongst the bushes by the shore, hand striking out. She sends a boulder flying through the air, straight for the Black Knight, to knock him off his horse and into the lake.

All it does, is shatter into a thousand pieces on impact.

“So, that doesn’t work either,” Guinevere mumbles, panicked. It truly occurs to her, perhaps for the first time, that she may die today, too.

She steers the horse around the lake, letting the Black Knight follow, just until she can come up with something else. Just until she finds something, anything, that will save her life.

In the end, it is Ygraine.

She comes running from the trees, dagger in hand, and shakes her head firmly when Guinevere makes to halt.

She passes her, and Ygraine takes a stand right in the Black Knight’s path, watching him come – and all Guinevere can think about, is that she’s probably just killed her husband’s mother.

But when he is upon her, Ygraine wields her dagger and plunges it, not into the creature, but into its horse’s flesh. The animal gives a distressed cry and topples, along with its rider, into the lake, just as Ygraine throws herself onto the ground to avoid being trampled by its hooves.

Guinevere has little time to be impressed.

The impact makes the ground shake and the noise frightens her own horse. Guinevere frantically tries to calm it, but it stands on its hind legs and throws her off the saddle, right into the lake.

The water is cold and murky. Guinevere tries to kick her way to the surface, but a hand wraps itself around her ankle in vice-like grip.

The Black Knight is pulling her to the depths of the lake along with him.

She tries to break free, tries to shake him off, over and over, but it is of no use. She hardly has any air left.

Then, two hands reach to grasp each of hers underwater. One is Ygraine’s and the other is Morgana, whose eyes are golden again. The grip on Guinevere’s leg slackens.

The next thing she knows, she can breathe once more, sitting on solid ground again.

“Do it,” she gargles at Morgana, coughing, “do it now!”

The Black Knight is rising to the surface again. Morgana is chanting so fast that Guinevere can’t make out any of the words, but it’s working.

The water turns to hard ice, trapping the Black Knight where he is, just below the water, hand outstretched towards them.

Though she is wet to the bone and spitting out water, Guinevere manages a feeble laugh. They did it.

Morgana puts her arm around her shoulders and laughs, too, while Ygraine pats her hair, even as she mutters that she might be getting too old for this.

The calm does not last.

Soon, the woods are filled with voices, and horses and knights trudging through the forest, with two dozen torches shining through the darkness.

The first voice to truly come through is Leon’s, fraught with worry as he calls, “My lady!”

Guinevere sighs. She will never hear the end of this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edwin never gets far.

The knights come for him the very next day. They bring him back to Camelot in chains, and throw him in the exact same cell he broke out of.

As he sits in it, he finally accepts that it seems he truly cannot escape his fate.

At least this time, when Ruadan comes to find him, eyes alight with magic behind the iron bars, Edwin knows exactly what to expect.

Later, when they find him hanging dead from the ceiling, the physicians say his neck was broken on the first try.

 

 

* * *

 

 

With the Black Knight gone, Camelot reverts to its usual state of relative calm.

A good job indeed, as the ordeal has fulfilled the share of danger Guinevere can tolerate for the foreseeable future.  

She believes she has solved the puzzle, too.

“Bruta never intended it as a test,” she tells Nimueh, “to find his true heir. If his children hoped to defeat the Black Knight, they had to find a way to work together. All of them. He was teaching them a lesson.”

“I would not be surprised if it were so,” Nimueh says. With a fond look, she puts a hand on Guinevere’s cheek. “You’ve done well. You were strong, even when they doubted you. Tom would be proud.” Chuckling faintly, she finally adds, “You would have made a good king.”

Guinevere smiles back, and pretends there is no part of her heart that breaks at hearing it.

Ygraine comes to her often. There is now a bond between them, but Guinevere still cannot decide if the lady showed such courage for Camelot, to prove herself, or simply to earn a friend in someone so close to her son.

When asked where she learned to do what she did at the lake, Ygraine only says, “My husband used to be a fine warrior,” and Guinevere begins to understand exactly why Arthur thinks she lacks transparency.

Morgana, for her part, is positively _gleeful_ at the prospect of rubbing her achievements in Merlin’s face upon his return. Guinevere does not pretend to even begin to understand _their_ relationship.

She receives a letter from her brother as well, among his usual correspondence. Word has, apparently, reached him at extraordinary speed, and Guinevere simply cannot believe that Sir Leon, once Cameliard’s finest and now Camelot’s best knight, is a common tattletale.

The knights seem to experience regret, as evidenced by the overabundance of flowers in the royal chambers. The lords do, too, which explains why she now has more combs, hairbrushes and pins than she could possibly use in a lifetime.

They do not say it in so many words, but she has earned their favor in a way that she had not before.

If she were king, she thinks, she might get used to it.

She might get used to all of it, really. To the right to rule. Which is exactly why she does not.

Still, while her days are busy, she struggles to find sleep at night. She tosses and turns in the bed, like she can’t quite get comfortable, like something isn't just right, like something is missing.

By the end of the first week, she is beginning to think that she may have gotten a little _too_ used to Arthur’s snoring.

At the start of the second week, she is staring out the window while Leon presents her with some report or other, hardly listening to a word of it.

Somewhere in there, however, she hears him mention the king, and her head snaps around. “What’s that?”

“I said – ” the corner of Leon’s mouth turns up – “that I am sure Arthur is fine.”

“Of – yes, of course he is.”

Leon’s smile widens. “I think it’s sweet that you worry about him.”

“I – I wasn’t – worried,” Guinevere denies. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” Leon shrugs. “I just think it’s perfectly normal that you’re thinking of him when he is gone, that’s all.”

Guinevere says nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The king returns in a fortnight, safe and sound.

He and his men ride into the courtyard where Guinevere awaits, with smiles on their faces and followed by the faint sounds of the people who still cheer for them in the lower town. They were victorious.

Arthur is the first among them, and Guinevere hastens to meet him, barely waiting for him to dismount before she wraps her arms around his shoulders.

He lets out a little sound of surprise, standing frozen before he relaxes into her hold, putting his arms around her in kind.

“I am so glad you’re all right,” she breathes in his ear, holding him tighter for a moment before she lets go.

There is a little smile on his face as she draws back. “Were you worried?”

“Not at all.” She offers him a bright smile in return. “I knew you would prevail.”

He grins. “Quite right.”

She is so busy with being happy that he is back – even when he is a little scruffy, and tired-looking, and _has_ smelled better – that it takes her a moment to notice something odd. She glances over his shoulder, studying the group of men behind him. There is one more than he left with.

Except he doesn’t look like a knight at all. He is half-giant by the looks of him, with short-cropped hair and bared arms the size of tree trunks.

“Arthur,” she asks, dragging her eyes back to his, “who is that man?”

“I found him,” he enthuses.

Guinevere raises her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand as he leads her towards the palace.

His excitement can hardly be contained as they walk towards their chambers. He tells her that the man is a peasant, from one of the outlying villages the bandits have raided – that he joined the knights in their efforts, and was quite useful in doing so. His name, he says, is Percival.

When they are finally inside the royal chambers, Arthur shuts the door and turns to her with a spark in his eyes.

“I am going to knight him.”

“Knights are noblemen,” Guinevere says.

Arthur opens his mouth as if to respond, then tilts his head at her. “Are you saying it like that because you didn’t think I knew that?”

She pretends he didn’t ask. “All I mean is, it is not the done thing.”

“Of course.” Arthur nods. “But neither is making a peasant into a king, and here I am.”

“That’s – not exactly the same, you _are_ still the king’s son.”

“That’s not the point.” Arthur steps closer in his fervor. “The point is, noble-born or not, this man has fought for Camelot with as much honor and bravery as any knight. He deserves to be rewarded as such. Besides, nobility is not about what you were born into, but what you believe in, and – ”

“Arthur,” Guinevere interrupts gently, “I am not actually disagreeing with you.”

He stops mid-word, frozen with a finger up in the air. Guinevere presses her lips together so she doesn’t laugh.

“Oh,” he lets out, nodding, before he frowns as if in confusion. “Then what are you saying?”

“Only that this is a bold thing to do,” she tells him. “Not many kings would think to.” Fondly, she adds, “But I suppose that of course _you_ would.”

He looks quite pleased with himself, too. “You think it’s a good idea, then?”

“If you believe that this man deserves a knighthood, then who am I to say otherwise?”

It brings a soft smile to Arthur’s face, and she cannot help but smile in return.

“So – ” He chuckles, casting a look around the chambers – “did anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

Guinevere breathes out a quiet sigh, then tells him the story of when _she_ was king.


	9. Bards Will Write Songs About His Greatness

Torches flicker inside the vast main chamber of the castle of Fyrien, casting long shadows on the tall, carved chair that graces its center.

Cenred sits on it, relishing the power it exudes. He does not yet have a real throne. Lot still rules over Escetir with too much resistance. But he grows weaker every day. Soon, he will fall.

For his path to be clear, however, Cenred must first remove the other obstacles that stand in his way of becoming king.

“So,” he asks of the man standing before him, “you are the infamous Myror?”

Myror bows his head a fraction in greeting, though his eyes never once leave Cenred. An assassin, he supposes, can never be too careful after all.

“I have need for someone of your talents,” Cenred says, “but first, tell me – are there any limits to who you would or would not kill?”

Myror shakes his head.

“So,” Cenred prompts, “a lord? A lady?”

“Yes.”

“Princes? Princesses?”

“Yes.”

“What about…a king?”

“ _Yes_.”

Cenred’s mouth twists into a smile, gesturing for one of his men to toss the bag of gold he has prepared. Myror catches it in one hand.

“A tournament – ” Cenred stands, stepping closer – “will be held in five days’ time. In Cameliard. Contestants will gather from every corner of the land, including….Arthur Pendragon.”

He cannot help the chuckle that escapes him as he speaks the name that way. Arthur, the boy he knew in Longstead, who cared for nothing more than swordplay, the tavern, his little friends and a pretty girl, who could not tell his head from his ass on a good day – the son of Uther Pendragon. A _king_.

The Gods have a sense of humor.

“I want him dead,” Cenred says simply.

Myror nods once.

“You are going about this all wrong.”

An unfamiliar voice comes from the shadows. Swords are drawn immediately, pointing at the intruder. Cenred unsheathes the two crossed at his back. Myror pulls out a dagger.

The stranger steps forward from the darkness, into the light of the torches, lowering his hood as he does, and Cenred chuckles again. He can spot his kind from twenty leagues away.

“To what do I owe the honor,” he asks, “of having a Druid grace me with his presence?”

“My name is Ruadan,” the man says, “and you and I have a common purpose. A common enemy.”

Cenred quirks an eyebrow. “Arthur?”

“I wish to see him fail as much as you do.”

“No, you’re wrong, old man.” Cenred relaxes, putting away his weapons. “I don’t _wish_ for him to fail. My interest in his downfall is merely…practical.”

He can’t very well take his throne if they’re all talking about peace, can he? If Lot makes nice with the two most powerful kingdoms in the land, then starts calling them his friends? And he _will_ try. Cameliard’s tournament is the perfect opportunity.

“Camelot, then,” Ruadan says. “You need Camelot to fall. For its alliance with Cameliard to be broken. For peace to die.”

“That is more like it.” Cenred grins. “But why should _you_ care?”

“I long for the same.”

“And I should take your word on that?”

“If you like. But I will show you that we have the same goal,” Ruadan tells him, “when I make you see that your attempt is foolish, and doomed.”

 _Oh, Druids,_ Cenred thinks. _Always with a way of making friends._ “You know this, do you?”

“Arthur’s death will change nothing.”

“He is the _king_.”

“He is no one,” Ruadan spits, contempt dripping from his every word, “a tyrant’s bastard. A peasant in a crown. He means nothing. His death would be just as meaningless. Or do you forget that you leave his queen behind?”

“So what?”

“So, Camelot will not fall. The alliance will stand. Do you really think,” Ruadan’s voice deepens in his fervor, “that the child of the Round Table will give up on peace just because her husband is dead?”

It gives Cenred pause. The question is one he has never asked himself, but he cannot deny that he should have. It grates on him, that he’s allowed such an oversight.

“So, what are you saying?”

“You want an end to peace?” Ruadan asks simply. “Then kill _Guinevere._ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The moment Guinevere’s feet are on solid, Cameliard ground, she runs to her brother and embraces him in the strongest hug that she can muster. He holds her just as tightly.

His letters may be many, and frequent, but they do not make up for his absence. This is the longest that she has ever been away from him.

 _Four months,_ she thinks. It feels like such a long time.

When they part, Elyan steps forward to clasp Arthur’s arm, grinning in good spirits. “I am so glad to have you here, Arthur.”

“I’m honored,” Arthur says.

He is _excited_. They all are. They’ve been acting like boys the whole way over.

While Arthur and Percival have never taken part in a tournament such as this, Gwaine and Leon are experienced fighters – as they are champions – and were pestered for details from the moment they set out of Camelot.

Each time Gwaine came up with some sort of outrageous lie _(“The winner is awarded his weight in gold,”_ or, _“Bards will write songs about his greatness,”_ or yet still, “ _He will be carried on the shoulders of those he has defeated through the entire city.”_ ), Leon tempered it with the far less glamorous truth. Gwaine called him a spoilsport.

Similar bickering seems to be starting up again, but the men’s voices fade to noise in Guinevere’s ears, as she stands in the courtyard and looks up.

Where Camelot’s palace is large, Cameliard’s is tall, made of neat, dark stones stacked towards the heavens. On heavy, rainy days, the towers almost seem to touch the clouds.

When she was a child, and her legs were still too short and weak to take it, her father would pick her up and carry her with him up the steps of the highest tower, because she wanted to see for herself if it could be done. It never could, her stubby, little fingers always falling hopelessly short of reaching the edge of the clouds, but she still asked to try every time it rained.

Father never told her no.

A gentle hand wraps around hers, and when Guinevere starts, blinking rapidly, Arthur offers her a kind smile, tilting his head just so. “Come on.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The welcome she receives warms her heart.

As she walks the familiar halls of the palace, the knights of Cameliard bow deeply before her, saying how good it is to see her again amongst mutterings of, _‘Your Highness,’_ and, _‘my lady’_. Her old maid is so glad of her presence that she practically runs to hug her, before she remembers herself and contains herself to a simple curtsey. The ladies of the court, unencumbered by such restrictions of station, do embrace her like old friends.

Guinevere holds them in kind – a smile never leaving her lips whilst her brother chuckles and shakes his head – and thinks, if only in the privacy of her own mind, that she’s come home. She is finally _home_.

Essylt, the royal seamstress, takes one look at her and starts to cry.

As Elyan leads the way further down, Guinevere steals glances at Arthur, never far from her side. He seems to genuinely enjoy himself here, attentive to everything that is said and eyes lingering on every curious detail, and something about that warms Guinevere’s heart, too.

It is, however, not until they reach the southside balcony that gives onto Cameliard’s vast tournament grounds that he turns – well, were he not a king, she would call it _giddy._

“After you’ve settled in,” Elyan proposes, “I thought we might have lunch, just the three of us. It’ll give us the chance to talk.”

Arthur’s excitement markedly drops, his eye straying to the grounds with longing. Elyan delivers a friendly clap to his back, as if to say, ‘me, too.’

That’s now two kings she counsels, Guinevere notes idly, who care more about adventure than they do for their right to rule.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Myror knocks out a serving boy and dons his attire to serve at the royal lunch in his stead. No one pays him any mind.

As the spring has brought warmer weather, felt more keenly still inside the dining hall, he slips the poison into the queen’s water cup. She chooses wine instead.

He tries to subtly place the water better within her reach. It’s still the wine she asks for. After a while, he even makes sure to give her the saltiest parts of the meat while placing the water _in_ her hand. She goes for the wine anyway.

They all do. Myror can’t say if it’s the talk of politics, or the talk of marriage (all three reach for their goblets at the same time after Pendragon says, “yes, we share the same bed, we like it,” and once more after, “we are just…so in love”), but it’s like they don’t know of anything else.

The lunch ends without her ever tasting a single drop. Disgruntled, Myror takes the cup with him and, on the way, dumps its contents into the nearest pot of flowers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the first day of the tournament, Arthur is alone in the tent set up for him, his stomach doing somersaults.

He has never, in his life, been part of something so big, so _thrilling._

The whole of Albion is here. He has seen all manner of men mill around the tents that litter the grass beyond the fighting grounds – lords, princes, champions for kings and wealthy merchants, and even the odd everyman, with no title, land, or a single coin to his name, only looking for the chance to prove himself.

Arthur feels closer to that last kind of men than any king he has come upon. (Like King Lot, who seems very eager to have his ear. Arthur avoids him like the plague.)

He’s not an idiot. He knows he is no one’s favorite to win this joust. He is still the peasant king, with the skill – or lack thereof – to go with it. Even in Camelot, he still feels it, more often than not. It’s in the looks people give him.

He cannot _wait_ to prove them all wrong.

An indeterminable amount of time is lost as he imagines his great moment of glory – and the bards that may or may not write songs about it –, grinning at nothing in particular.

Which is exactly how Guinevere finds him, when she steps inside the tent.

“Come to wish me luck?” Arthur grins wider.

“Yes.” Guinevere’s mouth turns up in a smile. It has scarcely left her face since they arrived the day before. “I have also – ” she produces a plain, white silk handkerchief from behind her back – “come to bring you this. _For_ luck.”

Arthur, who has never received a lady’s favor – or anyone’s favor, for that matter – is delighted, possibly beyond reason. “Thank you.”

He offers her his arm so that she may tie the cloth around it. Guinevere draws closer, taking to the task with deft and practiced fingers, head low and eyes trained on the knot she is making. Her hair smells nice today.

“Not that I need it,” Arthur says. “Luck, I mean. My skill is more than enough.”

Guinevere pauses a moment then looks up, her eyes soft as she says, “You have nothing to prove, you know.”

He has _everything_ to prove. That’s the whole point.

But her true meaning sinks in a moment later, and the perfect little bubble inside Arthur’s chest deflates. “You don’t think I can win.”

“I did not say that.” She shakes her head. “I am sure you will go far in the competition.”

Arthur studies her through narrowed eyes – then it truly dawns on him. “You think they’ll _let_ me win.”

She falters, and though she denies it again a moment later with, “I did not say that either,” he doesn’t believe a word of it. The bubble _bursts._

“I can _win_.”

“I – ” Guinevere sighs. “Of course you can. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” She steps back, patting his arm once. “Just…be careful, please.”

Arthur answers with a grumble, frowning at her back when she leaves.

 _Let me win,_ he thinks sourly. Of all the things – he can win! No one has to _let_ him, he can do it on his own, he will –

He will prove that, too.

An idea forms in his mind – perhaps, even, the most brilliant idea he’s ever had – and Arthur wastes no time in carrying it out. He walks outside with purpose, squinting against the morning sun as he weighs his options.

If this is to work, he needs someone unknown, someone who will neither draw attention nor have fame already. He spots just such a man retreating to a small, mostly pitiful, tent, which bears no colors or banners of any house or kingdom. He is about the right height and built.

Arthur follows him. When he comes inside his tent without warning, the man’s hand goes immediately to the sword at his belt, before he stops and just – stares.

“You’re King Arthur.”

It is good to be recognized. Arthur straightens to his full height. “And what’s your name, then?”

The man is still watching him, goggle-eyed and slack-jawed, before he remembers himself.

“Um, Lancelot, sir,” he says. “My name is Lancelot.”

That is, without a doubt, the strangest name that Arthur has ever heard.

“Well, then, _Lancelot_ – ” he grins from ear to ear – “how would you like to be the king of Camelot for a few days?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The queen sits alone in the royal lodge. She makes for the perfect target. And the immense crowd that’s gathered in the stands where he lurks makes for the perfect cover.

Myror raises the small crossbow, hiding it beneath the layers of his cloak. One strike to her neck, and his job will be done. He lines up the shot.

Someone bumps into him from behind. Myror topples forward, catching himself just in time. Once more on sure footing, he breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. That was close.

Not a moment later, a large, bony elbow catches him in the head and sends him face-first to the ground. A group of five walk right over him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Merlin reiterates, just to make sure he’s got this right, “you’ve asked a man, that you do not know, and have never seen before, to take your place in the tournament?”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Tell me why again?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Guinevere doesn’t think I can win this on my own.” He says it like it is the most outrageous notion on this Earth.

“Did she actually say that?”

“Her meaning was clear.”

Merlin doubts that.

It’s this tournament. It messes with men’s heads. All that competition, all that awaiting glory – they’ve all gone half-mad from it.

It’s the only thing that can explain this – and the near-maniacal fervor with which he’s heard Sir Gerard of Cameliard swear vengeance upon whomever had made a pot of the flowers he grows wither and die overnight. (Of course, he is also convinced that this was part of some careful plan to slowly chip away at his confidence in the contest, so there may be something else very wrong with that one.)

“Right,” Merlin says slowly, “so, the purpose of this is to…”

“Show that I _can_ win. With my skill alone. And once I _do_ win, I will reveal my true identity. Guinevere will see that she was wrong.”

“So, you’re…trying to impress her?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur sneers. “This is about proving a point.”

“That she should be impressed?”

“Exactly.”

Merlin isn’t sure he hears himself sometimes. “So, it _is_ about impressing the queen?”

“This isn’t about Guinevere – ” Arthur’s hand flails around – “it’s about all of them. I know she isn’t the only one who thinks it. I am every bit a worthy champion as anyone here. And when I prove that, everyone will know it is because I’ve _earned_ it, and not because they – took pity on me or whatever it is.”

Merlin sighs. Underneath this insane streak of blusterous pride, there is Arthur’s simple, deep need to just prove his worth as king. It’s all he’s ever trying to do. And so, against his better judgment, Merlin finds himself softening to this cause.

“All right,” he says, then asks the question he most dreads, “And why are you telling _me_ about it?”

“Well,” Arthur drawls, “this is a delicate, complex matter, one that requires a great deal of…forethought, and stealth, and…such. If we are to succeed, we must be careful. Prepared.”

“And?”

“And I may need your help.”

There are times – few and far in-between, but still – where Merlin simply _hates_ his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Guinevere has almost forgotten what an incredible _rush_ these things can be. The suspense, the roaring crowd – the men’s showmanship, and even their violence.

She announces the start of the tournament, and as always, there is a knot of worry at the pit of her stomach as she watches the contenders joust, whenever Elyan or Leon steer their horses to their marks. This year, the knot tightens each time Arthur picks up his lance, too.

But he fights well. The crowd loves him. And though his helmet hides his eyes, he turns his head towards her often, lingering, and Guinevere smiles wide, hoping he’ll see it even from so far away. There is a little flutter in her chest, too, whenever she catches glimpse of the token she’s tied around his arm.

She doesn’t remember it being so when she used to tie it around Leon’s.

It is an altogether different fighter, however, who truly leaves a mark. The crowd _adores_ him.

He unhorses his opponents with such dexterity and talent that even Guinevere’s jaw drops at the sight.  With each victory, he raises his lance into the air and earns himself a round of deafening cheers.

He is no one, comes from nowhere, and has nothing, but his name, apparently, is Lancelot.

Guinevere will never admit to the number of times he’s drawn her eye even when he is not jousting.

As the first day of the competition comes to an end, she is whisked away to a dinner with the ladies of the court. They dote on her for having not seen her in so long, sigh wistfully at the thought of having a crown, and clutch their chests at the story of the Black Knight. (Lancelot is mentioned often, too, and often so in phrases such as, _“He’s just very handsome, isn’t he?”_ and, _“Do you think he wields other things as well as does his lance?”)_

Guinevere leaves them to enjoy the company of her brother, who nurses an injury to his side – which he pretends he doesn’t have, as the rules of the tournament forbid the use of magic, such as healing spells, that would give any contestant advantage over another. (Lancelot’s handsomeness is, somehow, mentioned there as well.)

“You know, I wanted to say thank you,” Elyan tells her at one point, his voice soft.

“What for?”

“For the counsel you still give me, in your letters,” he says, “even when your duty is elsewhere now. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”

“Cameliard is still my kingdom, Elyan,” Guinevere says. “I am always here. If in heart only.”

His smile dims. “I thought you were happy in Camelot?”

“I am,” she assures quickly. “I just – I just meant that Cameliard is still very dear to me, that’s all.”

Elyan accepts this without question, then clicks his tongue and gives her his widest smile yet. “I said you’d fall in love.”

“Yeah,” Guinevere says, something twisting deep inside her chest, then quickly changes the subject.  

By the time she bids Elyan goodnight, the moon has already risen in the sky.                        

Sir Leon comes to escort her to her chambers. Though he never says a word about why, Guinevere knows him too well by now not to guess it, and so, casually, tells him that he’s fought one of his best jousts yet. He _preens._

Somewhere halfway through their walk, though, he stops, a hand carefully going to the hilt of his sword.

“What is it?” Guinevere asks.

“I thought I heard something,” Leon says. But after a moment of surveying the corridor, he relaxes, so it must have been nothing.

The next interruption is very much real, bearing the face of Elaine’s father. After he bows, kisses her hand and offers some pleasantries, he asks if his daughter has perchance found a suitable husband yet. Guinevere swears she feels – from all the way where she’s left her friend behind in Camelot – the exact moment when Elaine’s soul _departs_ her body.

Once she is, finally, seen safely to her chambers, Guinevere wishes Leon goodnight, opens the doors – and comes face to face with Arthur. He’s got a smile on his face and a cup of wine in each hand.

She slowly closes the door behind her. “What’s this?”

“It’s to say I’m sorry,” he tells her. “For how I acted this morning. It was uncalled for.”

It brings a smile to her face as she takes the cup he offers her, clinking it with his before bringing to her lips.

“You did fight well,” she says softly. His own smile widens before he reins it in, inclining his head to her in thanks.

He looks confident, relaxed, charming, even. Almost, she thinks, _smug._

“Still, not as well as your brother,” he says after a moment, “or Sir Leon. Or, uh, what’s his name again? Oh, right – Lancelot.”

The man’s name is following her everywhere today. “Mm – ” Guinevere takes a drink of her wine – “the ladies of the court are very impressed. They think he’s handsome.” (As does her brother, evidently.)

“Are you?” Arthur asks. There’s something _eager_ about it. “Impressed, I mean?”

Guinevere drinks again. “I suppose.”

Arthur just smiles again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You snore!”

From where he lies on his side atop the bed, propping himself up with his elbow, Arthur gasps, indignant. “I do _not_ snore!”

“You do!” Guinevere giggles, legs tucked to the side as she sits facing him on the mattress. “The first night we were married, I thought a pig had somehow got into the castle.”

“Oh, so now I’m a pig?”

“You _sound_ like one!”

“Right, well, you – you – ” Arthur struggles to find an equally slighting flaw with her, fails to come up with even a single one, then huffs. “Well, you’re just _perfect,_ aren’t you?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It is.” Arthur nods, as emphatically as he can without getting dizzy in the head. “Yeah. It’s…very annoying.”

Guinevere starts laughing, eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. Her smile is so wide, Arthur swears it blinds him for a second. He’s never seen her quite like this before – free and uninhibited, like happiness is simply spilling out of her. It’s infectious.

Maybe it’s the wine – and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Arthur is aware that one cup should not be affecting him so much – but he can’t even remember anymore why he started this. Something about making sure she doesn’t get suspicious? Or getting praise out of her that he can rub in her face once he proves her wrong?

Something like that. He forgets.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Guinevere’s head swims a little, like she’s walking on those clouds she tried to touch when she was a girl, and something tells her that that’s not right, that she shouldn’t be feeling so woozy, so fast – but she’s just too happy to care.

She is home. She’s with her brother, with all her old friends. Her heart has not been so full in months.

And Arthur is telling her funny stories to make her laugh – the one about the boy from Longstead who tried to kiss everyone’s cows has her in _stitches_ – and so, Guinevere just doesn’t care.

When she starts telling him her own stories, of the funny things _she_ did as a child, like stand on the Round Table and loudly call for men (Elyan and Leon, carrying wooden swords, not enough inches between them to make _one_ grown man) to fight against tyrants and beasts, Arthur snorts.

He doesn’t _believe_ her, and Guinevere is, honestly, so offended that her jaw drops. “It happened!”

“I’m sorry.” He chuckles. “I just can’t imagine _you_ doing something like that.”

She will not stand for her word being impugned in such a callous manner, and so, makes to demonstrate.

“I did!” she insists, clambering – in somewhat undignified fashion – to stand, planting her feet on the mattress. “I would climb on it, and raise my fist – ” the hand holding her goblet sails high in the air – “and say, _‘Onward! We must overthrow the tyrants!’_ ”

Arthur throws his head back laughing, holding on to his side. Guinevere starts sniggering along, too, until her whole body is shaking from it.

But her head is still woozy, and the mattress is wobbly, and she inevitably loses her balance, falling over with a yelp.

The goblet flies from her hand and clatters to the ground, spilling wine over the floor as she pitches forward, arms flailing. Arthur sits up faster than she can process, catching her with an arm around her waist. She lands against his chest, half on his lap, breath hitching.

There is still some laughter around his eyes, but Arthur’s voice is soft as he asks, “Are you all right?”

Guinevere nods her head, saying nothing. Their faces are really very close, and she feels a little drunker still because of it. His breath smells like wine.

She kisses him because she thinks that’s somehow funny, too, giggling against his mouth. Arthur smiles against hers.

He’s very warm, too. Comfortable. It makes her drowsy. His shoulder practically calls to her like a pillow.

Eyes already drifting shut, she slowly draws back, then rests her head against it. She’s fast asleep before she can form another thought.

(Neither of them remembers that in the morning.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Myror puts a sleeping draught into the wine he sees one of the servants carry into the chambers the queen shares with her husband. It will make them sleep like the dead.

He hides in an alcove by the doors and waits until he hears the laughter subside, then sneaks inside. Approaching the sleeping quarters on silent feet, he carefully unsheathes his dagger and pulls it out.

Arthur Pendragon is not his target anymore, and while Cenred might appreciate the gesture, Myror is not being paid for it. Best to keep him out of the way instead. Hence, the sleeping draught.

In the dark, Myror slips on a puddle on the floor, grabbing onto the bedpost to steady himself. He takes a deep, calming breath.

As he looks over to the bed, however, he pauses.

The king and queen lie on their sides, his chest to her back. He’s snoring lightly into her hair, making her neck inaccessible for a sure, precise strike, on account of his face being buried in it. He’s got an arm wrapped strongly around her middle, too, blocking Myror’s way to anything else vital on her body, like her heart or lungs.

When he tries to pry the arm away, it only tightens its hold.

Myror sighs.


	10. Why Not Me?

“ _Good_ morning.”

Guinevere groans, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow, and holds on to her pounding head. Why is Arthur being so loud?

Come to think of it, why are there still pins in her hair, digging into her already aching skull? And why is she sleeping in her dress?

Disassembled images slowly come back to her. Arthur standing with two cups of wine. Laughter. Something about a boy and Longstead and cows getting kissed. More laughter, and – did she stand up on the bed and call for battle?

“Come on.” Arthur gently nudges her. “Time to get up.”

He is standing by the bed, already dressed. There is a cup in his hand again, except this time, its contents smell rather like that thing Cameliard’s physician once gave her, that made her rattling cough go away, but had her vomiting for a week. Guinevere instinctively recoils.

“It is the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted,” Arthur agrees, “but it helps, I promise.”

With such prospects of sweet, merciful relief in mind, Guinevere does sit up, trying her utmost to appear like a queen – instead of disheveled, sticky, and thoroughly undignified.

When she drinks – whilst holding her breath – Arthur gives her a smile, rubbing a hand down her arm. Behind him, the servants milling about are watching.

“What happened?” Guinevere asks, once the cup is drained. Her head feels lighter already.

Arthur scratches his. “I’m not sure. I think we had too much wine. I don’t remember the half of it, to be honest.”

“Me neither,” she says, then tilts her head. “But I think we had fun, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Arthur’s voice softens.

No longer feeling like she is on death’s door, Guinevere takes a moment to look around, finally glancing out the window. The sun appears to be worryingly high in the sky.

“When does the tournament start?”

Arthur purses his lips. “It…starts.”

Guinevere’s eyes widen.

Carefully, Arthur adds, “I’d say you have about five minutes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The second day of the tournament opens with half as many contestants as the one before.

Guinevere again announces that they are to begin, and looks quite well put together doing it. She even did take no more than five minutes to make herself presentable.

Arthur is convinced that magic was involved.

Despite his hangover – and, probably, thanks to that foul thing Merlin made him drink – he jousts well today, too.

As Lancelot, he knocks Gwaine off his horse then on his ass, and feels quite good doing it.

Lancelot, as him, does the same to Percival. The impact, as the latter hits the ground, is probably heard a kingdom away.

Arthur’s high spirits dwindle around midday, when, up on the scoreboard, a page places the blue-and-silver emblem, bearing the royal seal of Cameliard, next to a plain black one, stamped with a single _L_ – which stands for Lancelot.

He is to joust against Elyan.

While is not well-versed in all the finer points of court etiquette, he still feels like this can’t be a good thing. When he wins, then reveals his true identity, everyone in Albion will know that he beat his greatest ally and, worse, brother-in-law.

Even if neither politics nor a man’s title should have any bearing on these grounds, Arthur can’t help but think that’s not the reality of it. Which is probably why King Lot’s champion was so easily defeated by Lancelot this morning, when he had been such a formidable opponent to others the day before.

This apparent ploy to win his favor doesn’t make Arthur avoid Lot any less, though.

Taking up his position, Arthur picks up his lance, stones settling down in the pit of his stomach.

He chances a glance at Guinevere through the slant in his helmet. Her face is perfectly impassive. Merlin’s is, too, where he stands by the tents.

Arthur shouldn’t even be _considering_ it. To so much as entertain the idea of letting Elyan win is dishonorable, goes against everything he believes in, and wounds his pride. And yet.

Even as he lines up the lance under his arm and spurs his horse forward, he still wrestles with it.

It is likely what distracts him and, again, likely why Elyan manages to land a blow, right to Arthur’s shoulder.

The pain sears through his arm, blinding. Arthur drops his lance, doubling over as the crowd gasps.

His horse kicks up a fuss, and Arthur locks his legs in place, holding on even as his head swims, silently pleading with the animal not to throw him.

He trots up to the starting position at the other end of the fields, where Merlin waits, a troubled expression on his face.

Arthur could yield. He has a perfectly good reason.

But when nears Merlin, even as spots dance in front of him and sweat drips in his eyes, he still says, “Fetch me a new lance.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You’re injured – ”

“Just do it,” Arthur grunts.

Merlin obeys, though not before he calls him mad.

Arthur ignores him, lifting the new lance and tucking it safely under his arm. The pain is so bad, it makes his eyes water.

But he straightens the best he can, turning to face Elyan once more, and the crowd erupts in cheers. This time when they charge each other, it is Arthur who lands the blow.

He wins, and in doing so, ensures that Lancelot’s reputation soars to new heights.

Elyan’s takes an understandable hit.

As he slowly, supported mostly by Lancelot, shuffles off to his tent – where Merlin waits, then tuts disapprovingly as he puts salves and bandages on his shoulder – Arthur doesn’t quite dare look in Guinevere’s direction.

The second day of the tournament ends with Sir Leon defeating a man whose name Arthur cannot pronounce, which is then followed by some commotion, when the royal lodge collapses in on itself for no apparent reason, scarce moments after Guinevere has left it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dinner is not particularly lively.

Elyan’s mood is understandable. He hasn’t lost a tournament on only its second day in ten years. So, if he sits in silence and mostly just pushes his food around with a forlorn look on his face, then Guinevere expects it.

But Arthur is quiet, too, every so often casting glances at Elyan with something strangely like guilt in his expression, and Guinevere cannot guess what _that’s_ about. She somehow gets the sense that she should worry about it anyway.

Mindful to avoid any sore subjects, she tries to start a conversation about the alliance, then about trade, court, food – then even, as a last resort, about the weather. Neither man cooperates.

The atmosphere they create is quite the deterrent for such things as, say, having an appetite, and so, bested, Guinevere ends up pushing her food away. It smells sort of funny anyway.

After dinner, she is once more led away by the ladies who are, this time, in the mood for a nighttime picnic and a dip in the nearby lake. Guinevere, who was left longing for any sort of discernible human interaction, accepts eagerly.

These thigs were more thrilling when she was younger. Now, when she distracts the kitchen maid while Lady Agnes sneaks food into the purse she carries under her skirts, then the stable boy while Lady Lora and Lady Edith quietly untie the horses, it makes her heart race only a fraction more than a council meeting.

Maybe it’s just because she’s had the practice.

Her appetite does return as the four of them settle on the shore by the moonlight, their voices sounding impossibly loud in the quiet night.

Lancelot is, inevitably, mentioned again – now being described as strong and bold, as well as handsome –, before the ladies’ interest shifts to other matters.

Agnes recently had a nephew, which she swears is the ugliest little creature to have ever come into this world, and she has no idea how to break this news to her sister.

Lora was, not a fortnight ago, at the center of a messy affair that involved a little-known prince’s cousin, a lord of Cameliard, and a foreign woman posing as a knight, all of whom found out about each other, then issued challenges amongst themselves to gain Lora’s sole affections. The men were buried a week ago.

Lady Edith, for her part, has recently had both the privilege and great misfortune of tasting a new, exotic dish, which has left her squatting over her chamber pot for the better part of the last two days.

Guinevere, as lakes still remind her too much of the Black Knight, opts out of venturing into this one. The ladies, having no such qualms, shed their clothes then race each other to the water, competing to see which one will make the biggest splash.

Guinevere, as the designated judge of this contest, rules that it is a tie.

She returns to the palace in much better spirits than she left it – though she does, on the way back, only barely avoid stepping into a deadly bear trap, which she could swear wasn’t there before.

Once safely returned within that castle’s walls, she bids the ladies goodnight and walks to her chambers alone. The halls are deserted.

It is, perhaps, precisely the silence and solitude that make her pause at the foot of the main staircase, then, instead of climbing it, choose the path that leads down into the bowels of the castle. Towards the catacombs.

They are an eerie place, despite the tall torches that always burn bright along the dark stone walls. Guinevere walks past the long row of tombs, each with a stone likeness of the deceased placed upon it. All, no matter who they were or how they met their end, are depicted the same way; lying peacefully on their backs, with their arms crossed over their chest and their eyes closed, as if they were merely caught in a deep, long sleep.

When she was a child and did not yet understand death, Guinevere believed that one day, they might truly wake. Much like she believed she could touch the clouds.

The tombs begin with those from the time of the Old Kings, preserved exactly as they were the day they were made by magic, then stretch, endlessly, to that of Guinevere’s father.

She comes to it slowly, letting her eyes rest on his likeness, carved, as the others, from stone with such precision that it appears almost lifelike. He, too, looks like he is merely sleeping.

Next to his tomb sits an empty one, where, when the time comes, Elyan will put to rest. It was made for him on the day he got his crown. Guinevere’s was made on the day she got hers, underneath Camelot.

She will never be with them.

All the happiness she had felt at returning to Cameliard slowly fades in this place, as she stands looking down on her father’s face in silence, his crown, even in death, placed upon his head.

It’s been almost a year since he died. All that time has done little against the grief she still feels, but it has brought her answers, to questions she has been asking nearly since the day she was born. Who she is supposed to be, where she will belong and what her purpose will be.

All of them, just not to the one that robs her of her sleep the most.

“Why not me?”

Her father’s tomb gives her no answers.

Guinevere hastily dabs at the tears that have pooled at the corners of her eyes, letting out a long, deep breath.

She lingers in the spot for a moment longer, then turns back the same way she came.

Even as she leaves the dead behind, some of the somber mood stays with her. The halls that she was so glad to walk before don’t feel quite as welcoming anymore. It doesn’t _quite_ feel like home.

And it probably doesn’t help that there is still nary a soul in her path.

As she makes her way to her chambers, she hears some rustling behind her and halts, squinting her eyes in the darkness.

“Is someone there?” she calls.

No sooner has she said it, that a hand shoots out of an alcove and pulls her inside.

A scream is halfway up her throat when Arthur shushes her.

Guinevere huffs. “What are you – ”

He hurriedly puts a finger to his lips. There are steps coming down the hallway, passing by where they hide.

Moments later, King Lot comes into view. His head spins this way and that, like he’s looking for something.

Or someone.

He disappears, his footsteps fading, and Arthur releases the breath he’s been holding.

For some reason, seeing him like this – or, perhaps, just seeing _him_ – lifts Guinevere’s spirits. She raises her eyebrows, fighting her amusement. “Are you hiding from Lot?”

“No…”

“Arthur.”

“Maybe.”

Her mouth twitches. “He can’t be _that_ bad.”

“He might be, for all I know,” Arthur says. “I haven’t actually spoken to him. But he’s been trying to get me alone.”

“And you’re avoiding him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Guinevere is truly perplexed. “If he wishes to speak to you, then it must be about bringing Camelot and Escetir closer together. Such an alliance – ”

“Would be historic, as the kingdoms have not been at peace in over a hundred years,” Arthur finishes softly. “I know. You told me that.”

Guinevere’s heart does a funny little thing in her chest. She said those words exactly. He remembers.

“So why avoid him?” she asks.

It is hard to tell in the dark, but Arthur might even look – scared.

“This might decide the future of Albion,” he says. “It _matters_. But I’ve never – made peace before, I’ve never forged an alliance, not by myself, not like this.” Barely above a whisper, he adds, “What if I do the wrong thing?”

Guinevere might have expected that. She gives him a small smile. “You don’t have to do it alone,” she says. “I’m here.”

Arthur smiles, too. “I know. But I am the king, aren’t I?”

Because their bodies are so close together in the cramped space, his breath brushes her cheek when he heaves a deep sigh. “I shouldn’t have to rely on others – on you – for everything. I should be able to do this on my own, too.”

“A _good_ king,” Guinevere says, “knows when to ask for help.”

And that is her purpose now, isn’t it? To be the council of kings, when she could not be one herself.

There is a beat before Arthur says, “In that case, I need your help.”

Guinevere’s smile widens.

“Of course,” she says. We can speak to Lot together. But you can’t hide, Arthur,” she adds, shaking her head. “No king can. If you truly mean to be one, then you must learn to face all your responsibilities, no matter how daunting they might seem.”

He nods once, solemnly, and again, Guinevere’s heart does a funny little thing. He listens to her.

Without thinking, she raises her hand, to run it down his arm. Arthur recoils, wincing.

His free hand shoots up, too, to hold on to his shoulder. His right shoulder.

Exactly where Elyan had struck _Lancelot_ in the tournament. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I cannot _believe_ you did this.”

Arthur stands opposite her in her chambers, looking vaguely embarrassed, but not, as she would expect, _repentant_ in any way.

He has confessed to switching places with Lancelot in the tournament, and Guinevere is mortified – _mortified –_ that she has, evidently, spent the last two days smiling at and pretending to give the glad eye to a complete stranger.

Not that she is going to tell Arthur that. “What were you hoping to achieve?”

He has the _nerve_ to look put off. “You said I couldn’t win.”

“I never said that!”

“Your meaning was clear.”

Arthur is proud, and he is stubborn, and Guinevere knows that – but she has never been so _frustrated_ by it as she is now.

He doesn’t really listen to her that much at all, does he?

“So, this is why you’ve chosen to deceive everyone?” she lets out. “Just to prove you’re right?”

Arthur stares at her, then _laughs._

Guinevere bristles. “Is something funny?”

“ _Very_.”

“What’s that then?”

“You,” Arthur’s words are heated now, “condemning _me_ for this, when – ”

“Did you expect me to be _pleased?_ ”

“You nearly _drowned_ – ” Arthur is looking at her like she is mad – “trying to prove _you_ were right!”

A retort dies in Guinevere’s throat.

And for all that Arthur’s voice rises as he says it, he doesn’t look angry. He just looks – upset.

“Oh,” she lets out, realization sinking in. Arthur looks away.

“I know why you did it, why you had to.” When he speaks again, at length, there is no fight left in his voice. “And it was the right thing. The Black Knight is gone,” he says. “But when you first told me about it, it – ” he shuffles his feet, shrugging awkwardly – “frightened me. I was…worried.”

 “You never said anything.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, still avoiding her eye. “Well, you know, I mean…what was the point? You were fine. And…you looked so happy that you’d defeated him, so…”

Something warm unfurls in Guinevere’s chest. Again.

And her frustration fades, as quickly as it came. “I was worried, too,” she admits. “While you were away then.”

Arthur does lift his head then, finally looking up at her as if in surprise. Not a word passes between them for a time, but his expression softens as he holds her gaze, his mouth lifting into a small smile – and Guinevere suddenly feels awkward herself.

She chuckles to try and dispel it. “But, um, that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees softly, then shakes himself, letting out a long sigh. “Do you really think this was a bad idea?”

“Well…it wasn’t the _best._ ”

Arthur’s shoulders slump. “You’re probably right.”

It shouldn’t move her this much, that he looks so defeated.

“It’s just that…I thought I could prove myself,” he says, “I thought, when – ” He sighs. “ _If_ I won this tournament, all on my own, it would be because I deserved it. And then they could all see that I’d _earned_ it, that I’m not just some…poor, miserable fool who has no idea what he’s doing.”

“Arthur…”

“Because I know what they think,” he goes on, nodding. “Of me. I’m the peasant king.” He shrugs. “The only thing noble about me,’ he says, “is you.”

Guinevere shakes her head. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Arthur’s smile is entirely mirthless.

“If they believe that – ” Guinevere takes a step closer – “then they are wrong.” She comes to stand right before him, tipping her head up to meet his eyes. “They don’t know you.”

Arthur swallows, looking down at her from under downcast lashes. “What do you think?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“I think – ” she sighs softly – “that though your actions may have been misguided, you are not wrong to wish to prove yourself. To make everyone see your _true_ worth.” She nods. “I understand.”

Maybe, if _she_ had tried harder, to show who she was, what she could do and what she could be – then maybe, Father would have chosen _her_.

“And I fear,” she adds, “that this subterfuge has gone on far too long to be stopped _now_.”

Arthur blinks at her a few times, then slowly starts to grin. “Are you saying that I should keep it up?”

“One more day can’t hurt,” Guinevere says lightly. “Besides – ” she breaks into a grin of her own – “it’d be a pity to miss the looks on everyone’s faces when they figure it out.”


End file.
